


Fixing A Broken World

by Vulkan192



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Blood, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Drama, Drinking, Drug Use, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Family, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Found Family, Friends to Lovers, Gun Violence, Headcanon, Healing, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Multi, Prostitution, Recovery, Romance, Sex, Slow Burn, Smut, Threats of Violence, Trauma, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:55:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 47,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26950063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulkan192/pseuds/Vulkan192
Summary: An anthology series set in the world of Fallout 4. When Richard Frost awakens from a centuries-long sleep, it is to a world he no longer recognises. A world scorched by nuclear fire, a world inhabited by monsters both human and mutant. It is a world he must come to understand, a world he must find a new life and new purpose in. And with the help of some unlikely allies, he intends to do just that.
Relationships: Cait/Male Sole Survivor, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Comments: 23
Kudos: 21





	1. Worlds Apart

Lightning split the sky and the man slept on, huddled in a blanket in the bombed out ruins of an antique store he’d used to walk by and wonder about going in. ‘Next time’ he’d always told himself. Thunder rolled across the world and he slept on. And as he slept, as they had every time he’d closed his eyes for the past week, snatches of that terrible day - a day that’d lasted two centuries - flitted through his mind. 

_ Nora beside him. The soft words and little touches as they’d gotten ready. “You’re gonna knock them dead at the Veteran’s Hall tonight, hon.” _

_ Steam from the hot coffee curling into his nose as Codsworth came floating back in, his son bawling his little lungs out in the room down the hall. “Shaun needs some of that paternal affection you’re so good at, Sir.” _

_ Standing over the crib, leaning in to tickle the now happy and gurgling little bundle. “How’s my special little guy?” _

_ The terror in the newscasters eyes, the tightening of his guts as he heard the words. “Confirmed reports of nuclear detonations in New York and Pennsylvania.” _

_ Running, one arm around Nora, urging her on. Shoes sliding on dirt as they came to a halt in front of a pair of power-armoured soldiers, their miniguns ready to spool up in the face of a desperate, panicking crowd. “Sergeant First Class Richard Frost, 108th Mechanized Infantry, we’re on the list!” _

_ The relief as they were let through, the terror as the mushroom cloud rocketed into the sky, the desperation as the lift slowly began its descent. “We made it, we’re gonna be okay.” _

_ The kindly eyes and smiling faces, guiding them deeper into the Vault, hiding the lies. A final kiss, the all-encompassing cold as the pod did its work, the disorientation of awakening again. The impotent,desperate fury as the gun was levelled at Nora. _ _  
_ _  
_ _ “I’m not giving you Shaun!” _

_ The gunshot. _

The man’s eyes snapped open, the sound of the revolver’s deadly bark echoing through his mind. Just as it had every moment he had woken these past seven days, it all crashed in on him again: his wife was dead, his son kidnapped, his world destroyed. Everything he’d known - save for Codsworth, floating downstairs on watch whilst he slept - was gone or transformed into some vicious, broken mockery of itself. Pushing back the blanket, he buried his face in his hands as he sat up on the broken office couch that had been his bed. It was all gone. 

Looking down, he glared at the blue synthetic fabric he was wearing. A constant reminder of the bastards that had tricked him and so many others, then left them to rot in their pods. He wanted nothing more than to tear it off and burn it. But he couldn’t do that. For one, he didn’t have any other clothes and - like the Pip-Boy on his wrist - it had its uses. Unless he came across some military surplus or the like, he wasn’t going to find anything tougher-wearing easily. 

Getting up, he crossed to the window opposite, neither noticing or truly caring as his movement awoke the hound curled at the foot of the couch. There, he looked out upon the ruin of the world he’d known. On and on, burnt and broken structures lay before him, streets choked by rubble and haunted by monsters both human and otherwise. What was it Mama Murphy had called him?  _ ‘The Man out of Time’ _ . An accurate description. Part of him wished he’d never woken up to this nightmare. That he’d died down there, in the dark, with the world he’d known. 

And as he had every day for the last seven, he grimaced and drove those thoughts away, threw them behind a door in his mind that he slammed shut. Shaun was out there. And whilst he might be the sole survivor of a world long-since dead, he was not alone: he had Codsworth, he had Dogmeat, he had made a new ally in Preston and the Last Minuteman’s words arose from where they’d sunk deep into his mind. This world might not be the one he knew, it might be a harsh place, full of hardship and horror. But it could be better. If people were willing to fight for it.

Fighting was something he knew  _ very  _ well.

Resolve re-emerged, stronger than the day before, as it had every day since he awoke. He would find his son, he would avenge his wife, and no matter what the danger he would try to leave this new world better than he’d found it. Turning away from the window, Richard Frost made ready for another day. 

Whilst the sky still lay heavy with grey clouds, outside the storm had passed.   
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I hope you enjoyed that little introduction and decide to stick around. If you did, feel free to drop a comment or leave kudos. They are, after all, the only way I know you didn't run away in disgust! 
> 
> Updates will be made when they can be and relationship tags will update as they develop. This IS going to be an anthology, so chapters won't always directly connect (most of the time, anyway) but it'll all be within the same continuinity and the same narrative.
> 
> Anyway, hope you have a nice day and see you next chapter!


	2. First Impressions (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A selection of the companions' first impressions and meetings with Rick. These first three of these (obviously) take place before the last chapter, but I figured it made more sense to give you guys an introduction to him first. After this, there (hopefully) won't be any more zipping around in the timeline.
> 
> Enjoy!

**_Codsworth_ **

_Clear and cut, clear and cut, horizontal and then vertical, keep it perpendicular, keep it perfect_ **.** _Clear and cut, clear and cut, horizontal and then vertical, keep it perpendicular, keep it perfect. Clear and cut, clear and cut, horizontal and then vertical, keep it perpendicular, keep it_ **_perfect_ ** **.**

As his inbuilt processes continued as they had for the last two-hundred and ten years, four hours, and twenty six minutes, Codsworth’s higher functions wanted to scream until his vox-modulator broke. Nothing was going to help dead plants, nor was there anyone to admire them unless one counted the occasional insect or mole. And yet he could not do anything else. He was the pride of General Atomics International and he was bedevilled if he was going to fail in his charge. Not whilst his batteries still fired. 

His audio receptors pinged suddenly, picking up the sound of boots crunching on the dead earth. If it was another one of those ruffians, by God he’d-  
  
“Codsworth?” 

The voice - the specific modulation and intonation - tripped another set of processes long dormant. It was the Recognised Owner’s Interaction Circuit and for the first time in over two centuries his House Maintenance Protocols went still. As did the desire to scream. 

Mister Frost was back, somehow unchanged despite the passage of time and in opposition of a minor function within his memory banks inputting that two-hundred and thirty-seven exceeded all known data on human lifespans. Now, as he took up his duties once more, Codsworth’s higher processes wanted to _sing._

He wasn’t alone anymore. 

* * *

**_Dogmeat_ **

This was a good place. Nice places to lie down in the sun, nice places to dig, nice places to sleep in shelter. But it carried the scent of other creatures, diggers. When they came, he would fight them. Because he needed to stay. Needed to wait to find one, one who could help Sad-Eyes, Grey-Lady, and Oil-Hands. He didn’t know why he had come here, but he knew it was here he had to be. 

He smelled the new person, their scent carried on the wind. Sweat, which was normal. Many other smells, _clean_ smells, that were not. He came through the empty gates, a small bang-stick in hand, that dropped when their eyes met. Tall, taller than Sad-Eyes. Hard face, that softened as he smiled, got down to one knee, held out a hand. 

He padded up to Blue-Man, sniffing, tilting his head as he read him. Strong, yes. Sad, yes, but not like Sad-Eyes. A heavier sadness, hidden and yet clear in every movement. 

Yes, this was the one. 

This was to be his new human.

* * *

**_Preston Garvey_ **

Preston shot up from his cover, not caring about the wild gunfire that pocked the stone around him. He had to stop them, had to keep the others safe. Some were already inside, if these joined them, they were finished. His laser musket was already humming its soft, energetic, comforting hum. All he had to do was aim and fire. 

He aimed, finding in his scope another raider. Hair done up in wild spikes, wearing little more than leather rags and bits of old car. Another bit of filth that wouldn’t let decent people live in peace. His blood ran hot just at the sight. Squeezing the trigger, he ducked back down, cranking the generator until it hummed again. The scream was his confirmation that he’d hit his mark. 

Then there was a second scream. Then shouts from down below. Gunfire, but not at him. Ducking up again, he saw the cause. It wasn’t a raider. Raiders didn’t wear blue Vault Suits. Raiders didn’t look like that. Raiders didn’t _move_ like that. It was like nothing he’d ever seen. 

The man moved quickly, but unhurriedly. A 10mm in his hands, he put another two shots into another raider, one in the chest and one in the head, before moving on to the next one, dropping them even as they yelled curses at him. And all the while he was moving forward, advancing _into_ what could be generously called the raider’s positions. Most people either hung back and plinked from ‘security’ or rushed madly in, trying to overwhelm. But not this guy, he was moving relentlessly forward, not letting the raiders breathe, ducking into cover to reload with a speed Garvey’d only seen matched by gunslingers. 

The Vault Dweller was down again, behind a car, and when he rose he had one of the raiders’ rifles in his hands. In them it almost didn’t seem the rickety collection of pipes and wood it was, spitting lead in short controlled bursts rather than the mad spray most people sent downrange. The raiders were falling back, scrambling now. Even their fucked-up heads recognised danger. 

Raising his musket, he dropped one of them as they shrank behind a wall, ready to run. Between himself and the lone Vault Dweller, they were all dead soon enough. 

“Hey, up here, on the balcony!” he yelled down as the man approached, gun at the ready, for all that the Dweller had evidently already clocked him. “I’ve got a group of settlers inside, the raiders are already through the door! Help us, _please_!” 

What surprised him more than how the man fought was his response. Just a nod of the head and a calm, clear answer. “Of course, just hang on!”

And with that he swept up his gun once more and headed inside the building, no questions asked or payment demanded. A feeling stirred in Preston’s chest as he headed inside and sent another laser blast through the only unboarded window in the office. 

They might just get out of this. 

* * *

_**Piper Wright** _

Piper wanted to scream. So she did.  
  
“Open the gate _now_ , Danny Sullivan!” 

Damn that MacDonough, he was going to _pay_ for this, the petty, puffed-up, conniving jackass. If he thought locking her out was going to stop her, he was in for a _big_ surprise. She was gonna get in, then she was gonna write such a story his maggot of a moustache would spin. Now she just needed to-

“You alright, Miss?” 

The words made her spin round, hand going to the pistol she had under her coat. But then she let it fall, more out of surprise than comfort. It couldn’t be helped, she’d seen a lot but nothing like what was in front of her now. A Vault Dweller - the slight ‘fish-out-of-water’ look hidden beneath the collected confidence in the green-blue eyes made that clear even without the Pip-Boy and the bright blue Vault suit still visible beneath the leather armour -, a Mr Handy, and a dog stood all in a line. 

The robot and the dog were both in surprisingly good condition for the wasteland. So was the Vault Dweller, for that matter. Travel-stained and in need of a trim, sure, but who wasn’t in a world like this, except for the great-and-so-called-good of the Upper Stands? But besides the dust, he was a cool drink of water: tall, strong-looking, and quite the nice face beneath the rapidly overgrowing beard. He’d evidently had a run-in with a Triggerman somewhere, seeing as he had one of their tommy guns in his hands. Assessment made in a flash, she held out a hand and shushed him to silence. 

“You want to get into Diamond City, right?” she asked, getting a nod in response. “Then play along.”

As she did her little song-and-dance routine, she kept an eye on the new guy, watching as one of his eyebrows rose at her theatrics. She flashed a grin as she finished and was surprised when he smirked back. Been a long time since somebody’d smiled at her and wasn’t either Nat or Valentine. Nice smile too.

Soon they were through and MacDonough was in her face and blathering, looking as red as a pre-war kickball and ready to pop. Turning to the newcomer, she asked him the only question that mattered to her. The answer had her back on her heels.  
  
_“I’ve always believed in freedom of the press. It’s the foundation of a free country, one of the most important rights America had.”_

It was the way he said it that surprised her. The words could’ve come out of a pre-war puff piece, but he delivered them with a quiet, genuine certainty. Quiet, genuine certainty was rare to come by these days. Pretty much nonexistent, really. She smiled as he put MacDonough in his place, only for that feeling to get doused in cold water as he explained about his son’s abduction. As MacDonough scuttled off, she made him an offer. A genuine one. She wanted to know about him and so would Diamond City. 

‘cause she hadn’t quite met one like him before. 

* * *

**_Deacon_ **

Deacon had to admit, as he adjusted his wig in the cracked mirror, this new General of the Minutemen was something else. You hear ‘General of the Minutemen’ and you usually think of one of three things: a corpse, a self-important blowhard, or a doddering geezer sadly watching everything come crashing down around him. But this guy - Richard Frost, late of Vault 111 - wasn’t any of those things. He’d taken a look at him for a day before he rushed off with Piper Wright, along with his dog and his robot. 

Just looking at him was fun enough, he had that sort of strong-jawed, soft-eyed, straight-nosed look that woulda made him a movie star back before The War. Good to look at, but far too noticeable for him to consider changing his face to. He carried himself well, the stride purposeful, the aura an interesting mix of cautious and open. A hand always near, but never touching his sidearm, his eyes moving but not flitting here and there. He’d never made _him_ of course, too good for that, but it was still admirable. All the same, the _watching_ had been far more interesting. 

He’d watched him talking with Arturo with a knowledge of weaponry that had had the lanky mexican grinning from ear to ear from just having someone to talk shop with. He’d watched him proclaim his love of a free press and fight the good fight against Moe Cronin’s idea of what baseball was with touching, poetic, if slightly boring sincerity. He’d watched him charm and disarm Crazy Myrna with admirable finesse. But what was most interesting, what was most _important_ , was how he’d dealt with the shootout.

It was the usual insanity of the Commonwealth: some moron had got it into his head that his brother was a synth and decided to try and gun him down in the middle of the marketplace. The guy’d been hollering the usual anti-synth garbage as his brother knelt in the dirt, hands in the air, terrified out of his mind. The poor sap had been nearly crying. All around the ‘good’ people of Diamond City had just stood and watched, while the meatheads in DC Security had barked orders and pointed more guns. 

And then Frost had stepped in. Literally.

Coming out of Fallon’s, having ditched his shiny blue vault-suit for some decidedly less interesting military fatigues and brown bomber jacket, he’d literally stepped into the middle of the whole mess, putting himself between the two brothers. He’d not even seemed to care about the nutso and his gun, talking to him as calmly as though they were discussing the weather over beers in the Dugout. 

It hadn’t helped, there was no arguing with crazy. Before the guy could fire, though, Frost’d knocked his gun away, the bullet putting a hole in the noodle shack’s chimney rather than Frost’s chest or his brother’s head. He’d probably have managed to disarm him, he’d moved that fast, if Security hadn’t jumped and ventilated the madman’s face. 

The whole mad incident told him what he needed to know about the Minutemen’s new General. He was brave, or maybe just stupid; he was fast; and even more than that, he didn’t get drawn on the usual synth-hating rhetoric. That was promising, but it was what had happened next that tipped the balance. Wiping the blood and decidedly scrambled grey matter from his face, he’d turned and knelt in front of the now openly-weeping and decidedly human brother.

And he’d just held the guy. Held him in his arms, speaking to him softly as he let him weep all over his new jacket, before finally picking him up and taking him to the Dugout, outright ordering people to clear a path and give him some room.

That wasn’t bravery or stupidity, wasn’t speed or cunning. That was something more than unusual nowadays. That was full-on, honest-to-God, _compassion._

And that made him very, _very_ interesting.

He’d have to keep an eye on this one.

Happy that his wig was right, Deacon picked up his DC Security-issued baseball bat and headed out for another shift of watching the great and the good of the Great Green Jewel.

  
  


* * *

**_Nick Valentine_ **

The first Nick knew of his rescue was when his audioreceptors picked up a muffled cry from that blockhead Dino. Nothing much, just the quick, guttural, last gasp of a rat whose number had finally come up. From the lack of any gunshot, it’d probably been a blade. The owner of that blade soon appeared at the window just vacated by the Triggerman. Tall, well-built, almost _too_ well-built to be a wastelander, for all the dirt and the unkempt beard. The mix of lack of food and constant exercise from simply trying to stay alive usually left most wasters in decent trim, but this guy’s frame was something different. 

“I don't know who you are, but we got three minutes before they realize muscles-for brains ain't coming back. Get this door open!” he yelled through the glass. 

His answer was a nod and the disappearance of the face from the window, to be replaced by Piper. Her appearance was somehow not as much of a surprise as it might’ve been. The Mr Handy floating behind her, on the other hand, was unexpected. After a few moments the door’s motors engaged and it slid open, revealing the whole group: his unknown rescuer, Piper, the Mr Handy and a bright-eyed looking mutt. 

“Ah, my knight-in-shining-armor.” Nick smiled as he stepped into the light, lighting a cigarette as he did so. He still didn’t know quite why, the things didn’t give him a buzz like they would if he were flesh and blood, but it felt right. “But the question is, why does he come all this way, risk life and limb, for an old private eye?”

As usual, he got the typical first reaction to the fact he was a mechanical man with a polymer face, dressed in trenchcoat and hat. The widening eyes, the rising brows. What was surprising however, was that they passed quickly enough and there wasn’t a hint of hatred or mistrust in the man’s voice as he answered. “I need your help, Detective Valentine. My son Shaun is missing. He was kidnapped, but I don't know who took him, or where they went.” 

Accepting the answer as the truth it plainly was, Nick started filling him in on what had landed him in this underground cell. But as he did so, secondary processes started filing away details of the man in front of him. Competent obviously, you didn’t get past about twenty dressed-up killers armed with submachine guns otherwise. Respectful, seemingly accepting of his robotic nature. In his voice was the pain of a father, partially smothered by an almost military control. In his eyes the look of slight despair anyone whose lost a loved one has. But beneath that was certainty, strength, and - yes - _rage_. This man wasn’t going to stop until he had his son back and the people who took him at his mercy. 

That, Nick could relate to. 

He could feel it in his gears, this case - and this _client_ \- were going to be interesting. Now they just had to get out of here, which judging by his new friend wasn’t going to be that much of an issue. 


	3. Soldiers Old and New

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the lack of updates, things have been busy in my life away from writing. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter, moving Rick's story along and introducing yet more of the wonderful people of the Commonwealth Wasteland.

Richard dropped the duffelbag full of the raiders’ weapons and what bits of armor were both still usable and actually _practical_ onto the ground in front of the settlers. 

“Those raiders won’t be bothering you anymore.” he said, his smile evident in his voice even through the distortion of his T-45’s vox speakers. 

After springing Nick Valentine from Vault 114, he’d caught an alert on the Radio Freedom frequency. The settlers of the newly-rejoined Oberland Station had been having problems with a raider gang operating out of an old clothing store in the Fens. He’d already sent Valentine and Piper back to Diamond City by then, intending to head to his bolthole in Hangman’s Alley and radio in to the Castle to send a couple of patrols to salvage all the building supplies they’d found in the half-built Vault, so it had only been him, Codsworth, and Dogmeat. But they’d been enough. Especially after he’d swung by Hangman’s after all and grabbed his power armor from storage on his way there. 

Despite the fact that a full suit of T-45 power armor was hardly the most stealthy thing in the world, they nevertheless got the drop on them. After that it was a simple matter that was quickly becoming routine, just as it had centuries ago back in Alaska and along the banks of the Yangtze. Breach the building, sweep every floor, salvage anything useful.The raiders had fought like the chem-crazed psychos they were but it hadn’t been enough. Between his Thompson, Codsworth’s buzzsaw and flamethrower, and Dogmeat’s teeth, they were all dead in minutes. 

Joanna and Liz, the two sisters who were the unofficial leaders of the settlement, living as they did in the old switching tower looked up from where they’d been staring slightly slack-jawed at the haul of weapons and armor. To be fair, the raiders had been sitting on some decent hardware. To his muted delight, he’d been able to swap out the antique submachine gun he’d taken off a Triggerman for a proper Alaska Pattern M17 Service Rifle, complete with bayonet and intact marksman’s stock. How a bunch of ragtag raiders had ended up with a combat rifle like it, he’d never be able to guess. 

“These are for us?” Liz asked, pulling his former submachine gun from the bag and examining it. Apart from a 10mm of Joanna’s, the best most of the people of Oberland had were pipeguns and the like. 

Richard nodded. “Every piece. With them, you guys should have a decent chance against rabble like that the next time trouble comes calling.”

“We’ll get them handed out, start setting up an armory.” Joanna nodded, plans evidently already starting to take shape behind her eyes before she shook them away and looked up. “Thank you, General Frost. You and the Minutemen really are makin’ a difference again.” 

Richard smiled. He had to, at praise like that. Beyond it simply being the right thing to do and a united Commonwealth perhaps being in a position to help him track down this ‘Institute’ Piper had been talking about, it was why he did this. The caps people passed him sometimes were nice too, to be fair. 

“That’s the idea, Jo.” he said, just as his armor’s internals fizzed with the familiar sound of a fresh broadcast being picked up by a mix of its communication suite and the Pip-Boy’s radio. Tuning it in, he put it onto broadcast so he wouldn’t look rude. 

_“This is Scribe Haylen of Reconnaissance Squad Gladius to any unit in transmission range. Authorization Arx. Ferrum. Nine. Five. Our unit has sustained casualties and we're running low on supplies. We're requesting support or evac from our position at Cambridge Police Station. Automated message repeating…”_

Behind his helmet, Richard scowled just as much as everyone else around him as he cut the feed. That transmission was military. _Too_ military for it to be the Gunners. And as far as he knew, they didn’t have ‘Scribes’. With Cambridge not far, it was worth a look. After all, they seemed in trouble. 

“Speaking of,” he said, trying to put a bit more levity into his voice than he felt as he swept his rifle down from where it hung on his shoulderpad. “Duty calls.” 

* * *

Danse sighed as he disembarked from his rig, his weariness expelled with the breath. It had been a long day and he felt bone-tired but it wasn’t over yet. Things still needed to be done, duties attended to. Sitting down at the desk of the room he’d commandeered in the ruins of the police station, he pulled the chair closer in and - after a few moments to gather his thoughts and put the events of the day in order - started typing onto the terminal, adding yet further to the record of his squad’s activities in the Commonwealth. 

_“Reconnaissance Squad Gladius Operational Log 112287-8._

_A further casualty was sustained today. Knight Keane fell in defense of our compound at the police station by a significant number of feral ghouls. Despite the earlier loss of his power armor, he held the line valiantly. I would hereby request posthumous commendation be attached to his service file upon our return to the Chapter._

_Knight Rhys sustained injuries during the defense and it would have appeared that our position would have been untenable. However, in answer to a distress signal sent out by Scribe Haylen, we received reinforcement and were able to maintain a successful defense of the station. This reinforcement took the form of a civilian”_

Danse paused. Somehow the word - for all that it was technically correct - did not seem right to describe the man who had come to their aid. He could still remember the moment he’d done so. Rhys had been down and Haylen had been tending to him, whilst he’d been holding the steps to the front door against what seemed an endless swarm of ferals. The tide had been unrelenting, every time he cut down one of the snarling monsters another had been there to take its place. But then, above their snarls, he’d heard something he hadn’t expected to. 

The familiar tread of power armor. 

Out of the alleyway next to the police station, a combat rifle already firing into the swarm, had appeared a figure in T-45 power armor. The way they’d moved in the older rig had put to Paladins he’d known to shame and the way he’d ordered both the hound and the robot following him in to the defense of the perimeter would’ve made Krieg nod with pride. Together they’d been able to first drive back and then completely rout the feral. Deleting the word, he continued. 

_“This reinforcement came in the form of General Richard Frost of the Commonwealth Minutemen, a local militia group. With his assistance and those of his followers - in this instance a Mr Handy and a dog - the station perimeter was held and the threat of the ferals destroyed, at least for the time being. Upon further interrogation, it became apparent that General Frost is/was a Vault Dweller. He is in fact the sole adult survivor of Vault 111, outside the settlement of Sanctuary Hills. Furthermore, the nature of Vault 111 appears to have been for the purposes of experiments related to cryogenic suspension. Whilst unconfirmed, I have no reason to doubt General Frost’s claim that he was in fact born before the Great War (see notes)._

_Following the securing of the station, I requested General Frost’s aid in the procurement of the Deep Range Transmitter located at ArcJet systems, which he agreed to. Leaving his followers to assist in the maintenance of the perimeter, we set out for ArcJet immediately. Encountering marginal resistance on our journey there, we easily breached ArcJet’s external security and began our sweep.”_

Danse wrote on, replaying the events in his mind with perfect clarity. For all they’d met scarcely an hour before, they had worked together well. Frost had proven himself adept at sweep-and-clear, moving with both caution and efficiency. Despite his own nominal rank, he’d not bridled at his orders or his command of the operation. The discovery of Institute synths had been troubling, but neither had let it affect them. Not even when they’d dropped from the gantries above them in the Engine Core. 

Danse grimaced unconsciously as he recalled the fight. Those metal monstrosities all around him, laz-fire glancing off his armor. He’d seen Frost out of the corner of his eyes, rushing back through the control room. Many others would have taken the opportunity to engage the rocket’s engines and either trust to luck or not even care whether his armor had been able to hold up. But Frost had just powered past the control panel without so much as a second glance at it and joined him. Back to back, they’d wiped the bastards out. 

_“Upon recovery of the Deep Range Transmitter, we returned to Cambridge Police Station. There - in accordance with protocol - I offered General Frost compensation for his assistance in the form of my personal laser rifle. However he refused, instead requesting only a comparatively smaller reward of a laser pistol. Furthermore, in my capacity as Commanding Officer, I offered him a place within our ranks. Though he did not accept, he did not entirely reject the proposition._

_If he should later return with an affirmative, I hereby endorse his inclusion within the Brotherhood. Beyond his skills in the use of Power Armor and small arms, he possesses the necessary qualities required of a Brotherhood soldier: bravery, compassion, and obedience. I also believe him to have a vested interest in the defense of the Commonwealth and its populace from the horrors of technology. Should he be accepted, I most highly recommend his elevation to the rank of Knight and request my assignment as his sponsor.”_

Adding a few notes for the scribes in case they might be able to find something in the Citadel’s archives regarding Frost’s service record, Danse saved and signed off from the terminal. 

Tiredly, he rubbed a hand across his jaw and considered the final words of his report. He stood by them. The man he had met today had been outstanding, in both word and deed. The Brotherhood would be enhanced by his addition to their ranks if he chose to accept his offer. Rhys probably wouldn’t like it, but that was of little account. What mattered was the Brotherhood. Only they could bring the world back from the brink of ruin and stop it from being hurled over the edge by man’s inability to control technology. 

Falling into his sleeping bag, Danse closed his eyes and let his mind drift off into a dreamless sleep. He only had a few hours before he needed to be up and assisting Haylen with the installation of the Deep Range Transmitter. If they got it working, they’d be able to contact the Prydwen.

And all of this - the deaths of Keane, Dawes, Warwick and Broach - would have been worth it.


	4. A Father's Fury

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, just as a 'sorry' for taking so long on the last one (which, I'll be honest, I wasn't too happy with) and because inspiration struck me, here's another chapter of Rick Frost's journey in the Commonwealth. Hope you enjoy!

The door swung open and Piper rushed through it, following in the wake of Rick’s armored form, Nick and Dogmeat behind her. In the Fort’s control room, she moved to the left of the hulking tower of riveted steel and drive servos, Nick taking his right, whilst Dogmeat hung back behind his master. In front of them, stepping from shadows rather overdramatically as lights overhead thrummed to life, was the man they’d hunted across the Commonwealth. 

Kellogg. 

He was as Rick had described to Nick: tall, lean, bald, with a massive sunken scar across a cruel face. Dressed in black leather with a curious armored bracing to his left arm, he carried a revolver that dwarfed hers and Nick’s. Beside him, two metallic figures stood impassive, harsh reflections of the synthetic detective she knew and called friend. 

“And there he is. The most resilient man in the Commonwealth.” Once again, Blue’s description was proved accurate. If anything, he’d undersold it. The mercenary’s voice wasn’t just like sandpaper across your face, it was like it scouring out the inside of your ears. And when he breathed a cold chuckle to himself, it was almost an anti-laugh. “Funny, I thought I had that honor.”

For a long moment, all was silent, save for the sound of Blue’s rifle creaking slightly as he gripped it tight and his breath coming through his armor’s vox speakers. Even without its tinny distortion, Piper could hear its harshness and the anger running through it. Things that she’d never heard before from Blue but which she heard even more as he spoke, the words sounding dragged from him by sheer will. 

“You murdered my wife... took my son.” They weren’t accusations, they were statements. Statements of pure, unadulterated  _ hate _ . Whilst she kept her gun up and her eyes on the synths, she was worried about the man beside her. He’d never sounded like this. Not when he talked to Nick, not when he gave her an interview, not in Vault 114 when they’d torn their way through an entire gang of Triggermen.

Kellogg sighed at the words, but when he spoke there was a strange sympathy. “Your wife. That was... a regrettable accident.“

“ **_Bullshit!_ ** ” the word was a whipcrack and it redoubled her worries. Blue had never sworn in anger in her hearing. “It was your choice. You had others.”

“Maybe I did.” Kellogg admitted, with a shrug completely at odds with the menace radiating out of the power armored figure facing him. “But think about it. this world, this life? You've seen it. Pain, suffering. Death is its only escape. As for Shaun, don't worry. He’s fine.” A slow, cruel smile spread across the scarred face, wiping away the sympathy. “Maybe a little older than you expected, hmm?” Rick actually  _ growled  _ a breath through his helmet’s speakers at the question. “I can't give him to you though, because he ain't here.”

The combat rifle in Rick’s hands rose, its steel bayonet glinting in the control room’s lights. “Then you're going to take me to him. Right now.” Control strained with every word. She wanted to say something, but felt she couldn’t. All these years getting by on what she could say and her words were stuck in her throat in the face of that fury.

“Take you to him?” Kellogg outright laughed at that idea and she knew it was a laugh she’d be hearing in her nightmares, even as it faded and the merc’s face twisted into a sneer. “Like I could, even if I wanted to. Don't you get it? Your son, he's in a place nobody can reach.” the cruel smile became a scarred grin of triumph. “Shaun's safe at home. In the Institute. And you’ll never find him, because you don't find the Institute. The Institute finds you.You open the closet, it's just a closet. You can never find the monster that hides inside. Not until it jumps out at you.” The grin faded as the man rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck. “But we’ve been talking long enoug-”

Whatever words he was going to say next were torn away as Rick stormed forward, a berserk bellow the match of a freaking deathclaw’s roaring through his vox-speaker. She saw his combat rifle crackle, heard the answering bark of Kellogg’s revolver as he drew quicker than she thought possible and put a round in the center of Blue’s chestplate. Then she was down behind a workstation as the blue laz-blasts of the synth’s guns scorched the air where she and Nick had been standing. 

Snatching a shot that ripped away the polymer of one of the synth’s shoulders before she ducked back down again, Piper only got a glance of Blue and Kellogg locked in a slugging match. Somehow the merc’s head was still on his shoulders, his arms somehow able to tank punches that should’ve shattered them. One of the synths went down, Dogmeat growling as he tore at its servos and plastic skin. As the other turned to aid its buddy, she and Nick opened up at it, shredding it with half a dozen .44 slugs.

As they rushed to take out the one that Dogmeat had subdued in his fangs, Pipers ears rang to the sound of Rick roaring his hatred through his armor’s speaker. A titanic punch sent Kellogg flying back against another workstation, his legs going out from under him from the jarring impact. Before he could get up, Rick was upon him, one steel-wrapped foot snapping one of the merc’s legs with a stamp that did not seem intentional and yet was delivered with contemptuous ferocity. 

Disconcertingly, Kellogg didn’t scream. Just as he didn’t so much as grunt when Rick’s armored fist smashed into his scarred face and smeared his nose across it. The only sound came from Rick, roaring out his hatred of the man who’d destroyed his life with every punch. Again and again he rained down blow after blow, rewarded only with sprays of blood and teeth and bone. 

Piper knew she had to say something, even as she put a round into the skull of the synth Dogmeat had downed. But she couldn’t. Just as before, her words were stuck in her throat. Desperately she looked to Nick, but all she saw was her own shock and no small amount of horror reflected back at her, stunned into stillness. This wasn’t the man either of them knew. The man they knew fought with an almost clinical efficiency. The man they knew only raised his voice in a fight to yell an order or call a warning. 

She watched, dumbstruck, as Blue tore his helmet from its seals and used it to bludgeon the man beneath him, his screams of hatred now rendered disturbingly and heartbreakingly human. Hurling it aside, he continued his barrage of punches and Piper looked away, vomit bubbling up her throat as she heard the wet  **_crack_ ** of Kellogg’s skull breaking beneath the onslaught. While she kept it down, she couldn’t look back. She closed her eyes, wincing with every howl of rage and crunching impact. 

At last, at length, the sounds ended and she let her eyes creep open again, only to shut them tight again as a primal scream of pain and anger and sorrow tore through the room. When she turned back, Rick was still kneeling on the ground. Beneath him, Kellogg’s skull was nothing more than wet fragments of bone and glistening globules of grey matter. Breath after ragged breath ripped itself free from Rick’s chest. 

Looking to Nick, she was glad when he stepped forward first. She’d written about an avenging parent and a father’s fury. But even in her most imaginative moments she couldn’t have written the man she’d known before - the man who threw himself into gunfights for people he didn’t even know, who cared for others before himself, a man of quiet kindness and compassion - turned into this. 

Nick stood beside him, putting the skeletal of his two hands to one blood-flecked pauldron. At the touch Blue looked up and her heart broke again. Gone was the bestial rage, the unhinged anger. All that lay upon Richard’s face was desolation, sorrow carved into his face in the tears that cut their runnels through the blood and brains and the dust of the Commonwealth. When he spoke there was no hate, no fury. Only heartbreak and pain. 

“I’ve lost him, Nick.” he sobbed. “Shaun. I’ve lost him.” 

“I’m so sorry, partner.” the synthetic detective answered, kneeling down beside him, not caring as his trousers touched the pool of blood spreading from the mercenary’s pulverised skull. “But we’ll find him again.” 

She felt a cold nose against her hand, looking down into a pair of chocolate eyes, far smarter than any dog’s should be. Holstering her pistol, she followed Dogmeat to Rick’s side. 

And gave what help she could.


	5. A Place to Call Home

Richard staggered into the street, blood seeping through the fingers he had clamped over his gut, the cuts and laceration to his arms and legs bleeding free. Dropping to a knee as the joint collapsed under him, he forced himself back upright. He had to get back to Nick, it was the only way he stood a chance. Using the wall of the building to keep himself upright, he dragged himself down the sidewalk, each step agony. The growl that tore itself free of his clenched lips was less an howl of pain, however, and more an expulsion of anger. Anger at himself. 

Apart from taking the case in the first place, he had been stupid from the start. He’d been stupid only taking Nick with him, leaving Dogmeat, Codsworth, and Preston back at the Castle. He’d been stupid leaving Nick at the front door in case their target - a crazed serial killer by the name of Pickman who made ‘art’ out of raiders or even just people who got in his way - rabbited. He’d been stupid leaving his armor behind to jump down into the network of tunnels Pickman had created under his ‘gallery’. He’d been stupid to not just plug the madman as soon as he saw him, instead wiping out the raiders trying to take revenge and then holding the bastard at gunpoint for a moment, letting him start talking and get into a position to hit the lights and start carving him up.

 _“So goddamn stupid…”_ the thought filtered through the pulsing, slowly dulling agony. _“Survived Yangtze and Anchorage with not so much as a scratch... Survived a_ **_nuclear war_ ** _.... Survived a deathclaw and bandits and radstorms and now I’m bleeding out because of a mad goddamn_ **_artist_ ** _with a knife.”_

Taking step after agonising step, vision blurring and darkening, he turned the corner. In front of him, the sidewalk seemed to stretch for miles until the turn into the alley that led to the gallery’s front door. Momentum and sheer will were what was keeping him going now, not simple muscular power and active effort. He had to get to Nick. There were stimpaks in the bag. They’d help, if nothing else. 

His foot caught on a piece of rubble as he turned into the alley and he crashed to the ground. The pain flooded through him, turning his shout into a strangled yell. 

“Niiick!” anything more was choked off by a sharp intake of breath as his body fought the losing battle to stay working. 

At the far end of the alley, the gallery door burst open and there he was. Nick Valentine, his partner in crime-solving. The man who’d tried to help him find Shaun in and around the madness of the Commonwealth. He had his revolver up but that dropped when he saw him, a look of shock passing over the battered polymer face. 

“Holy hell!” the words were faint, like they were coming from somewhere far away. His vision dimmed and when it swam back into focus briefly as the dark closed in, Nick was looking down at him. “Just hold on, y’hear? I’m gonna get you outta this, partner!”

If he said anything else, Richard didn’t hear it. The darkness closed in and all light and sound faded into nothingness.

* * *

_The lights were gone, the only illumination that put out by the dull green glow of his Pip-Boy’s screen. Breathing hard, he swept an arc in front of him with his lazpistol, trying to hear him, trying to_ **_find_ ** _him._

 **_Pain_ ** _._

_It blossomed in the hollow of his right knee and he crashed down onto it, feeling the blood run, hearing the soft giggle as Pickman sped away back into the blackness. He fired at the sound, the harsh light of the laser scorching away into nothingness, lighting the foundation columns a hellish red._

**_Pain._ **

_A new cut. Shoulder. The blood began sheeting down his arm. Again, the soft giggle and the retreating footsteps. Again, a laz-blast that hit nothing._

**_Pain._ **

_Right forearm, the searing pain making him drop the pistol. Then, as he scrabbled for it in the dirt-_

**_Pain._ **

_Chest._

**_Pain._ **

_Belly._

**_Pain._ **

_Back._

_Pickman was on top of him, a knee on his sternum, regarding him with a serene sense of interest. Before he smiled. A terrifying, too-wide rictus of a grin that was lit by the sickly green glow of the Pip-Boy’s light._

_“Yes, yes, you will do nicely.” The knife’s tip drew itself across his lip, leaving behind it cold that quickly turned white hot._

**_Pain._ **

_“I will make something truly_ **_wonderful_ ** _from you, my friend.” The knife, lifted for but a moment, cut across his brow. “Something_ **_spectacular_ ** _.”_

_Still scrabbling at his side, his fingers curled around the studded polymer of the lazpistol’s grip._

_Red fire lanced into the grinning face. Full-auto. Until the fusion cell burned out._

_The room blazed red, then fell back into the shadows._

* * *

Smell, oddly, was the first sense that came back. First, the scents that had somehow in the last weeks and months become ‘normal’. Dust, old decay, and yet the strangely clean air of a world that probably hadn’t seen a working car or factory for two centuries. Then, other scents. Scents strangely familiar, strangely _homely_. Cooking meat and something that smelled almost like spices. 

After that, taste. The claggy, dry, acrid taste of a mouth that’s had nothing in it for a while. A tongue that’s turned to a stick of dried leather. Beyond that, the iron tang of blood. Faint, but still there. Right at the back of his mouth,.

Then there was touch. Not the cold and clammy touch of freshly dug earth, not the scratchiness of a funeral shroud. But the comforting - if springy - feel of a mattress beneath him, the semi-softness of a blanket over him. Opposed to that, the constricted binding of bandages around his torso and arm, a heavy web of the stuff ballooning his right knee, and a tight ring around his forehead. 

Hearing filtered in. The lap of waves, the far-off but omnipresent crackle of gunfire that was life in the nightmarish version of Boston that he’d awoken to when he’d emerged from Vault 111. The hiss of meat on a hot pan wedding itself to the smell. The chugging of a generator and the insistent ratcheting of a...turret?...sweeping back and forth on its assigned arc. Then, in a ridiculous counterpoint to it all, the dulcet tones of Bing Crosby floating high and remote from a radio. 

Finally, groggily, painfully, his eyes opened. At first he couldn’t see anything properly, but after a couple more painful blinks his vision cleared. Above him, the cracked and faded paintwork that marked seemingly every building nowadays started back down. He wanted to look about but-

**_Pain._ **

All at once it came flooding back, dull and pounding rather than the stinging frostfire it had been once. The mere act of expelling a hissed breath and drawing in another stoked it higher. He bit back the groan with nothing more than ingrained will of the Sergeant he’d once been. Even now the mantra rang in his head: _“Never let them see you bleed.”_

Well he’d failed that already. Somebody had seen him bleeding buckets. 

“Nick?” The name came out as a harsh rasp, spoken by a tongue that still couldn’t quite bend properly to say it right. 

Nevertheless, it worked. 

“Well look who's up.” the smiling face of the synth detective appeared into view above him. “How you feelin’, partner?”

Richard grunted through a smile of his own. “Filleted.” 

“Yeah, you got cut up pretty bad.” Nick replied, nodding sadly. “Even with the two stimpaks I stuck in ya, it was touch and go with all that blood you’d lost and some of the deeper cuts. If I hadn’t gotten you here…” 

_‘I’d be dead.’_

The thought had a hollow quality to it. It should’ve been terrifying and yet...it wasn’t. It never had been. Even back in the Yangtze and Anchorage. He’d never gone looking for it, rarely _wanted_ it, but his own death...it just didn’t phase him. Shaking the memories of all the times he could have or even _should have_ died away, he looked back up at the synthetic face above him. 

“Water?” he managed to croak out. 

With another nod Nick disappeared, leaving him staring at the ceiling. After a moment he was back, his skeletal hand propping up his head whilst the other held a can of water to his lips. Slowly letting it trickle in at first, Richard almost sighed at the lukewarm bliss of it. Half-emptying the can by the end, he looked at Nick as it was taken away. 

“Thank you, Nick.” he said, able to form the words properly now. 

“Don’t worry about it,” the detective answered with another smile. “You needed it.” 

“I don’t mean the water.” he clarified, looking directly into the glowing yellow eyes. “Thank you.”

Valentine was silent for a moment, before he nodded and patted his bandage-swathed shoulder gently. “What’s a partner for, huh?” 

Grunting slightly, Rick crossed his left arm over and covered the synthetic hand with his own. He’d felt it before but this had confirmed it. It didn’t matter that Nick had a soul of silicone and a heart of steel: he was his friend. Absolutely. After hopefully conveying that through a look, he grunted again as he started pushing himself up, managing it with only a little help from Nick. 

The room...was not what he had expected. He’d expected - at best - some sort of doctor’s office, at worst just an abandoned room whose door Nick had booted in and dragged him inside. What he was actually lying in was an old studio apartment, best as he could tell. Second floor, from the view out the windows, which confirmed what the sound of the water was - whatever this place was it was right at the mouth of the Charles, just before its final turn to sea. Looking to his left, he saw what would’ve been the apartment’s bathroom, if things like that still worked. The living space ran along to the left in an L-shape from the door opposite his bed. 

Furnishings were sparse, but they were there. He could see the corner of a sofa laying up against the wall of the bathroom, hidden for the most part but staring down the long line of the living space, and there were a couple of end tables set up on either side of the bed he was lying in. Still had lamps on them, for some reason. A chest of drawers lay against the wall to his right, with the familiar shape of his green duffel bag lying on top of it.

Looking back at Nick, he asked the obvious question. “Where are we?”

“Old pal of mine’s place, couple of blocks from that gallery of horrors.” Nick explained, leaning back. “If you’re feeling up to it, why not come down and say hello? Sure they’d both be glad to see you’re still among the living. Been two days of watching and waiting.”

“Sure.” Richard chuckled, suppressing his surprise at having been knocked out for two whole days. Taking a look under his covers to find that, yup, he was wearing only boxers and bandages. “Gonna need some clothes though. Had some spare fatigues in my duffle.” 

“Well get ‘em on and I’ll meet you outside.” Nick nodded, heading for the door. “Stimpaks should’ve finished their work, if you want to stop looking like you just walked off the set of _The Curse of the Mummy’s Revenge._ ” 

Waving his friend away before rubbing at his forehead, Richard was up and on his feet before the door had closed. He’d lived in too many barracks in his life to either expect or require privacy. Swaying slightly until his balance returned, he padded to the door to what he’d expected was the studio’s bathroom. His expectation was proven true as he opened the door, finding it surprisingly clean for something that no longer functioned. But it had what he needed: a mirrored door on the medicine cabinet over the sink.

He didn’t even need to unwind his bandages to see the first of the scars. Even with two days more growth to his already shaggy beard, the scar over his lip was plain to see. At least it had healed right, healed smooth. No sunken or overly protruding tissue. He’d seen some mangled mouths in the army, even after stimpaks and surgery, and was glad he hadn’t joined their number. Taking off the bandage around his forehead, he was happy to see the one flicking up from his left brow was similarly light, if nonetheless noticeable. The one on his forearm - from the cut that had made him drop his pistol - was long, but clean and shallow.

Getting the bandages off of his chest was somewhat more involved, especially towards the end when the crusted blood on the inner layer caught and had to be pulled free. What they revealed were worse than the scars on his face, but better than he’d feared. One scar wasl a straight slice across his upper right shoulder. The next diagonally bisected his right pectoral, an inch to the side and it would’ve sliced through his nipple. Another crossed his belly just above his navel. It was a miracle the bastard hadn’t disemboweled him. Twisting awkwardly, he found the one on his back, a diagonal cut across his left shoulderblade. Each scar was angry, a vivid red against his skin, but they were closed at least. And when he rolled his arms and stretched he felt nothing but the stiffness of two days enforced rest. 

Unwrapping the bandages to his knee was the same involved process, for they’d been applied properly, with a practiced hand. The scar behind his knee was less ‘impressive’ than the ones to his chest and arm, already looking more like the one he had on his leg from when he’d fallen off the schoolyard railings as a kid. Thank God for Stimpaks: without them that would probably have crippled him. Stretching the joint properly to be sure, he nodded happily at the ease with which it moved.

Catching the reflection of his face in the mirror, his smile faded. He made a decision then and there and so turned and left the bathroom behind. Crossing over to where his gear sat atop a chest of drawers, he snatched up his combat knife and marched back to the mirror and set about giving himself a shave. The hair he didn’t feel like doing anything to, for all it was nearly reaching collar-length, but the beard had to be sorted. He was starting to look like a backwoods lumberjack. It took a bit of time, but eventually he had the thing back in order: what had been swift becoming a bush was now a well-trimmed and short-cropped beard.

Crossing back to the chest of drawers, he paused for a moment to once more take a look outside. Outside the window, beyond a small wooden dock with a couple of wharves that were populated now by water purifiers rather than boats, the Charles slowly charted its course to the sea. Across the broad river, there still hung the sight that had struck him dumb the first time he’d seen it: a tall ship - the USS Constitution, it had to be - sticking out of a building in the middle of Charlestown. One day, he meant to go see it up close and find out just what the _hell_ had happened, but that could wait.

Even with the tightness of the new scars and the ache that seemed to have spread across his entire body, it didn’t take him long to get dressed. Putting on fatigues was something he’d gotten down to a fine art after almost a decade in the Army. He was surprised to find that, when he reached for them, his boots were _clean_. He’d expected them to be bloodstained, with all the leaking he’d been doing when he crawled out of Pickman’s gallery. Someone must have cleaned them. Before lacing them up, he tucked the cuffs of his pants into them. The habit was one too ingrained to shift, even if it did get him odd looks now and again.

Strapping on his 10mm - he couldn’t see the lazpistol Danse had given him, it was probably still lying next to Pickman’s corpse - and clipping on his PipBoy, he opened the door to find Nick waiting for him as he’d said he would.

“There we go!” the synth detective smiled. “Looking better already, partner. Now come on, best not keep your hosts waiting.”

Smiling back, Richard gestured towards the stairs. “Lead on, Nick.” 

Walking was slow-going, his movements stiff if not quite painful. The stairs led down a floor to another studio, identical in floorplan but otherwise empty, then down to the ground floor. That had been turned - it seemed - into a workshop. Quite an expansive one at that. The walls were lined with the machines and tools necessary for gunsmithing, hand-pressing ammunition, armor repair and tailoring, as well as a small chemical workstation. There was even, he noted, ceiling-mounted hooks and chains that could be used to hang up a suit of power armor for disassembly and repair. Looking at it made him look to his friend.

“My armor’s back at the gallery, I take it?” he asked, as they walked through it all. 

“‘Fraid so.” Nick answered. “Didn’t know how to move it. I took the fusion core out though; should stop anyone running off with it.” 

“Thanks, Nick.” Richard smiled, making a note to get it back as soon as he was able, even as Valentine waved his thanks away. 

“I take it our artist friend isn’t going to be painting any new portraits?” Nick asked, glancing over at him.

“I put a full fusion cell into his face, so I hope so, Nick.” Richard suppressed a shudder at the memory of those mad eyes glinting in the Pip-Boy’s glow. “I truly hope so.”

“Sorry about this, Rick.” Valentine said, with a shake of his head. “Serves me right for taking a contract from Goodneighbor. Hardly the ‘get your mind off things’ excursion I intended.”

“Don’t worry about it, Nick.” Richard answered, driving down the memories that threatened to spring back to the light. Of how he’d failed to find his son, the trail ran to a dead end and a mercenary whose brains he’d splattered over the ground. “My heart’s still beating.”

Walking out of the building's entrance corridor, which ran all the way through from the street on one side to the riverbank on the other, Richard slid to a halt as he realised where he was. He’d walked past this place often enough before the war. It was Piccolomini’s, a mom and pop pizza place. The owners had rented out the two studios next door to their restaurant and he’d nearly gone for one when he’d got back before Nora’d told him to move in with her, for all that they weren’t married yet. For a long moment he simply stood in the street, remembering how it used to be. The fresh-painted walls, the hum of the neon sign, the hustle and bustle of a world, if not at peace, then at least not scorched by nuclear fire. 

Shaking away the memories, Richard looked at the building as it stood now. Most of the windows were gone, but more than a few had been replaced with wooden shutters. The paint had long since faded or flaked away and the sign was gone. But there was now a new one, simply painted wood, that read _“Ernie’s Pizza Place”_ that hung above the door to the restaurant. The small park that had abutted the place had been turned to growing edible plants: bushes of razorgrain grew tall beside the wooden frames of tato cages where once there’d been roses and begonias. And a little ways down the street he spotted the telltale, slightly horrific, shape of a brahmin with both its heads in a trough fashioned from an old bathtub.

They were barely through the door into the restaurant when a shout battered at his ears and roared through his sore head. 

“Well look at you!” the man behind the bar cried, face split open in a grin as he slapped the counter he was sat behind. He was a tall man, nearly his own height, with a barrel chest and - amazingly for the Commonwealth - a prominent gut. His black hair was slicked back under an old, if well kept, fedora and his grinning face was partially obscured by a moustache that would’ve made Teddy Roosevelt jealous and was just starting to grey at the tips. “Nicky said you were up and about and part of me didn’t want to believe it. You looked _rough_ when he dragged you in here.” 

“To be fair, I can hardly believe it myself.” Richard smiled tightly as he walked up to the counter and held out a hand. “Richard Frost, thanks for all your help.” 

“Hey, fuggedaboutit!” the man answered, with a shake of his head, before he pushed Richard’s hand away and leant across the counter and enveloped him in a tight, decidedly awkward hug. “Any pal of Nicky’s is a pal of mine.” 

Richard didn’t answer, save only to grunt slightly as the man’s shovel-like hands slapped at his back, one right on top of one of his new scars. 

“Ernie, lay off of him.” a woman sighed from behind them and Richard craned his neck to look over his shoulder. Standing in the threshold of the double doors that led to what had been the outside seating area and the park beyond, the speaker shook her head as she brushed soil from her hands onto the coat she had over a set of work clothes. At a glance she was, like the man, in her forties or thereabouts and had her hair tied back from a strong-featured face, hardened by life in the wastes. “The guy’s just come back from the dead and if you ain’t careful you’re gonna finish him off again, crushing him like that.” 

At her words, ‘Ernie’ promptly let him go, which was good as it let him breathe. “Sorry about that, pal. My Jessica’s right. But hey, now you’re up and about, let’s get some food in ya, can’t have ya wasting away. Fancy some pizza?”

At the question, Richard simply _stared_. For a brief moment the words simply did not compute within his head. Pizza? In the wasteland? Even here, sitting in this restaurant, it didn’t make sense. “You, uh,” he managed to stammer out. “Mean some sorta freeze-dried stuff from before the War?”

“Nah, nah.” Ernie shook his head, before grinning somehow even wider with evident pride. “All 100% gen-u-ine homemade pizza, fresh from the oven. Made with our own crops, cheese, and whatever meat we get from traders and travelers.” 

For the first time in what seemed a long, long time, Richard’s mouth split open in a broad, happy grin of pure joy. If he ever needed proof of the resilience of the world and the people of the Commonwealth it was that here, in the middle of a bombed out city, somebody was making _pizza_. 

“Sure, absolutely!” he answered. “Pizza sounds _great!_ ”

“Well alright!” Ernie said, clapping him on the shoulder. “You go take a seat outside and I’ll get things going.” 

And with that, the big man turned and began assembling things in front of the row of three ovens that lined the back wall, same as when the place had been open before the war. Unable and unwilling to repress the giddiness he felt at the prospect of _pizza_ , Richard followed Jessica out to the outdoor eating area, followed by Nick. Sitting down at the table he was directed to, he looked back up at her, his smile fading slightly. “How much do I owe you for this?”

“Don’t you worry about that, hon.” Jessica answered, shaking her head slightly. “As my Ernie says, a friend of Nick’s is a friend of ours.” 

“Not hard to be your friend, Jessie.” Nick put in, smiling up at her. “You and that big galoot have always been good people.” 

“Like attracts like, Val.” she replied, matching the smile. “You want anything yourself?”

“A drink’d be nice.” Nick shrugged. It’d surprised Richard at first, Nick - by his own admission - didn’t _need_ to eat or drink, being a synth. But he was nonetheless capable of doing so and enjoyed it. 

“I got just the thing.” Jessica nodded, before turning to him. “You want a drink as well?” 

Richard nodded in turn. “Please.” 

The courtesy produced a laugh. “Good manners, this partner of yours, Val.”

“Yeah, they don’t make them like him anymore.” Nick chuckled, which made Richard shoot a look over at him. One of Jessica’s eyebrows rose in puzzlement, Nick forestalled any question with the raising of his skeletal hand. “Later, Jessie. When we’re all sat down and getting to know each other better.”

Accepting Valentine’s word, Jessica turned and walked back into the restaurant with little more than a nod. When she came back out, she had what looked like a bottle of wine in one hand and a selection of various different glasses on a tray in the other. Setting them out and pouring out a measure for Richard, Nick, and herself, she sat down with a sigh of comfort, even if all she sat on was a wrought iron chair. 

“Won’t be long now.” she said, with confidence, before charging her glass. “Cheers.”

The three of them clinked the glances and Richard took a deep drink from the wine. It was...goddamn it was _good_ . Suppose it made sense that wine’d still be more than simply drinkable like the whiskey or vodka he’d found since waking up. Once upon a time, he’d not have been able to _dream_ of drinking a two century old bottle of wine. Now it was his only option.

“So,” he said, putting his glass down and nodding appreciatively as it was promptly topped off. “How long have you and Ernie been here?” 

“Five years, give or take.” Jessica answered, thinking about it for a minute. “First year was rough, getting everything cleared out and set up. Once we had the parts, the electricity wasn’t that bad. But the plumbing?” She rubbed at her eyes. “The plumbing was a chore, even with all the old pipes still being in good enough nick. Still it was worth it, even if it ain’t _that_ hot, there’s nothing like a shower after a long day, nor the relief of not having to walk into a stinkin’ outhouse to do your business.”

Behind the rim of his wine glass, Richard’s eyebrows shot up and he had to stop himself from choking on the ruby liquid. Setting it down as easily as he could, despite his instinct to all but drop it, he looked over. “You have working _showers_ here?”

“Sure.” Jessica answered, smiling archly. “There ain’t nothing my Ernie don’t know about plumbing and fixing things. All the water’s pumped out of the Charles, filtered and purified, then sent up to a cistern on the roof. The bathroom where you’re sleepin’ works too, if you wanna grab one later.”

Wrong and rude as it was, Richard had the intense urge to suddenly make his excuses and _sprint_ back up to his room and grab one. He hadn’t had a shower in...well, _centuries_. But before he could, Ernie appeared with a look of triumph and a steaming pizza balanced on a tray. 

“Lunch, my friends, is hereby _served_!” he said, putting the tray down on the table with a flourish.

It certainly _looked_ like a pizza. Sure, the dough was darker, the cheese a slightly greener yellow, the sauce darker and what looked like pepperoni pinker, but it was undoubtedly _pizza_. Taking the first slice at everybody’s urging, Richard didn’t so much as sniff, simply taking a massive bite. Just like its appearance, the taste was... _different._ **Very** different. But by no means was it _bad_. As the old saying in the 108th’s mess had gone: there was no such thing as bad pizza, despite the mess cook’s best efforts. This? This was _good._ Rich and tangy and just... _good_. It defied definition save for that paltry effort his brain concocted. It’d been so long since he’d had something that wasn’t resurrected pre-War ready meals and sweets or else roasted or stewed wasteland creatures. The intensity of the moment, of having a small piece of the world he’d known - no matter the differences - back, misted his eyes. 

“I think that look’s all we need.” Ernie smirked, sitting down. “Good, yeah?”

“Damn good.” Richard said, swallowing, before taking another greedy bite. 

As they sat and ate, Ernie explained his process. Everything but the meat was their own. The dough was made from razorgrain, the sauce from reducing down tato skins, which were the closest bit of the strange hybrid that approached tomatoes nowadays. The cheese for the topping, they got from the milk from their Brahmin ‘Moo-Moo’ - Ernie was insistent that her name had been already given by the Bunker Hill trader they bought her off, to which Jessica said nothing. The meat in this case, Richard was surprised to find out, was muttchop from the great mutated hounds that the Super Mutants kept as guard dogs, spiced with leftover spices they’d scavenged, among other things. They had a network of hunters and traders they worked with to keep supplies up. No matter its provenance, it tasted _fantastic._

“So,” Richard asked as he finished washing some of it down. “Where were you before this place?” 

“Jessie and Ernie used to live in Diamond City.” Nick explained. “That’s where we all met. Jessica worked with Sun at the Surgery Centre and Ernie used to maintain the town’s water supply.”

“Started that Kowalski kid learnin’ everything he knows.” Ernie put in, raising a hand in ironic apology. “Whatever’s up there forgive me.”

Richard’s brow furrowed. “Why’d you leave?” Even though he could still hear the ratcheting of the turret on top of the apartment building behind the restaurant and could see the grip of an Army standard 10mm peeking out under Jessica’s coat, it couldn’t exactly compare to the massive walls and armed security of the ‘Green Jewel’. 

“McDonough.” Ernie answered and for the first time since he’d met him, Richard saw the man’s smile turn into a scowl. “After he kicked out Wiseman and the others - our own neighbours, goddamn it! - just for being ghouls and got cheered in the streets for it, we realised the place wasn’t for us either.”

“We didn’t like what it had turned into.” Jessica agreed, taking an angry swig of wine. “What that _asshole_ had turned it into.”

“So we asked Nick if he’d help us find a place and headed out.” Ernie continued, putting a hand over his wife’s and patting it gently. “Met up with Wiseman, Deidre and the rest and we all headed north. Safety in numbers, y’know? We found this place, all boarded up, and figured it was a good place to settle down: room from crops, right by the Charles, close to The Hill.”

“Wiseman and the others headed on though, couldn’t persuade them to say.” Jessica added, sadly. “Hear they got a farm up north now though, which is a bit of luck.”

“Should send a message with Buck one of these days.” Ernie mused, before looking back properly at Richard. “One of our trapper friends. Anyway, once we settled down here it was just a matter of getting it up and running again. Lots of salvage, which helped, both for building and selling at The Hill. Not just the restaurant either, but that office across the road and a few of the houses too. Soon enough, traders and wanderers were coming to _us_. So we set ‘em up with a bed, feed ‘em some food, and that keeps us in caps.”

“And you’re safe here?” Richard asked, concern in his voice. These were good people and those were few enough, sadly.

“Safe as you can hope to be in a world like this.” Jessica shrugged. “We’re close enough to the Hill financially that most raiders keep away, though even with that it seems almost like they’re _afraid_ to come near this part of the city recently.” That made Richard glance at Nick and they shared a look, before he turned back as Ernie spoke up. 

“Plus _that_ was sitting there when we arrived, completely untouched.” he said, pointing past Richard who turned to see where, a bit further down the river, a river barge laden with shipping containers had driven itself onto the riverbank. “Had quite a bit of military salvage on it: few gun crates, ammo, not to mention ol’ Betsy up there.” His finger swung to indicate the still revolving turret. “Only thing we couldn’t get open was this one container. Locked up tight with one of those hydraulic locks you need to use a terminal to openl.”

“Mhm,” Richard nodded, making a mental note to check it out, before he turned back to them. “So you’re really okay here?”

“Sure.” Ernie shrugged, looking away. “No problems at all.”

“Ernie, the ‘answer while looking away’ trick didn’t work when I was asked whether or not it was your round back at the Dugout and it ain’t working now.” Nick’s voice was pointed now, his synthetic brows knitted. “What’s going on?”

“Nicky, I’m serious, it’s-” Ernie began, before Nick cut him off. 

“No, Ernie, _I’m_ serious.” The detective’s voice was as hard as the metal that made up his skeleton. “What’s going on?”

“A raider group moved into an old fight club a little ways south, couple years after we got here.” Jessica put in, at which Ernie swore. “Place called the Combat Zone, just off Boston Common.”

“They've been giving you trouble?” Richard asked, tapping his fingers on the table. 

“Couple of them wander up now and again, throw their weight around.” she shrugged. “Nothing we can’t handle. Not like they’re demanding tribute or nothing.”

“Not yet.” Nick shot back, angrily. “Hell, you two, how long I been checking up on you? You never thought to _tell me_?” 

“We didn’t want to worry you, Nicky.” Ernie answered, rubbing at his forehead. “You’re not here often and we always wanted to make it a celebration, not go begging your help again.” 

“It’s not begging, dammit, you’re _friends_!” Nick yelled, before growling and shaking his head in frustration. “All these years and-”

“I’ll deal with it.” Richard put in, his tone hard and uncompromising, bereft of any warmth or the opportunity for argument. 

“You?” Ernie asked, raising an eyebrow. “Buddy, no offence, but you just took a hell of a kicking recently. You sure you’re even up to something like this? We’re talking a full on _gang_ here, most likely.”

Sliding his chair back, Richard stood up, willing himself not to sway from both the wine and the aftereffects of his injuries. “I don’t think I introduced myself properly back then. Richard Frost, _General of the Commonwealth Minutemen._ Not to put too fine a point on it, this is what I _do_.”

“Minutemen?” Jessica asked, sharing a look with her husband. “We heard you guys were gone.” 

“We were.” Richard shrugged minutely. “Now we’re back and we mean to stay. Just like the old days: protect the people at a minute’s notice, everyone working together to help the common good.” 

“Well, shit.” Ernie said, taking off his fedora and running a hand through his hair, before his grin came back and he chuckled. “I mean, that’s great! It was always better when you guys were running around. If you think you’re up to it-”

“I am.” Richard answered, cutting him off. But then he smiled, letting the hardness fade from his voice. These were good people, they’d helped him. He shouldn’t bark at them like a bunch of fresh-faced recruits looking down the barrels of their own rifles to figure out where the bang came from. “Now come on, let’s go and have a look at what’s in that last container of yours.” 

“It’s sealed shut.” Jessica said, confused. 

Richard’s smile became a grin and he held up his Pip-Boy-laden wrist. “And I have a key.”

* * *

It didn’t take long to get to the barge, even at his slightly slower pace than normal. Stepping on to its rusted hulk, the small group crossed to the only container that didn’t have its doors flung wide and contents ransacked. Now that he was closer, Richard could see the star painted on each of them in flaking white paint. He supposed it had been going to or from the stockpile at Fort Strong, not that it ever arrived at its destination. 

“This is it.” Ernie said, jerking a thumb at the now-dormant terminal set into the container’s door. “Thing’s busted to hell though, couldn’t get it going, let alone get into it.”

“Not a problem.” Richard smiled accepting a swig of wine from the bottle Jessica had brought with them before pulling at the adapter plug at the back of his Pip-Boy. 

Finding an access port on the terminal’s base, he set about powering it back up through his Pip-Boy’s power-pack. For half a second, nothing happened. Then, with a beep and a soft hum, the terminal powered back online. 

“Well will you look at that.” Jessica said, nodding her head in appreciation. “Handy little gizmo you got there.”

“Tell me about it.” Richard said over his shoulder as he booted up the terminal’s termlink protocols, the things that could be manipulated into letting him in. Why RobCo had built the things this way, he had no clue, but he wasn’t going to argue. After a little bit of thought, some trial and error, and just a touch of guesswork, he was rewarded by the sweet sound of the command access override being accepted. “We’re in.” 

With just a couple of clicks, the hydraulics holding the door shut hissed, creaked, and then disengaged, sliding out and letting the door swing slightly free. 

“Haha, brilliant!” Ernie crowed, happily, moving to pull the door open. “Let’s see what we’ve got!”

Disconnecting from the terminal, leaving it to return to unpowered dormancy, Richard helped him open the cargo container door, which resisted after two centuries of neglect. But eventually, after pushing and pulling and the shrieking of rusted hinges, it swung free. Sweat was beading both their foreheads and Richard was breathing harder after such effort following two days of enforced rest, but the two of them shook hands, each grinning at the other before they went to look inside, flanked by Nick and Jessica. 

At what lay within, Richard whistled in respectful appreciation. “What we’ve found, Ernie, is a thing of beauty.” 

Inside the container, untouched for over two centuries and in remarkable condition, was nothing less than the pinnacle of military research and development. A weapon that had transformed the face of the Sino-American War. A weapon Richard knew like it was an old friend. 

Staring back at them, its visor obscured by dust, was nothing less than a full suit of T-51 Power Armor.

* * *

“Now that, my friend, is some serious firepower.” 

It was the evening, hours after the discovery of the T-51, and Richard, Nick, Jessica and Ernie were stood in the workshop that formed the ground floor of the apartment building. Before them, hanging on the hooks, the T-51 was ready for a good renovation. Even untouched as it had been, it nevertheless had two centuries of neglect to contend with. Getting it back here, even with the fusion core from his T-45 powering it, had been a slog. The limb actuators were sticky, the hydraulics in the need of tuning, and all of it needed cleaning. 

Richard had also taken the time since then, in spite of objections from everyone, not just Nick, to return to the gallery. His primary reason had been to get his T-45 back before someone ran off with it or scrapped it for parts. The secondary had been more personal. Against further objections from Nick, who’d refused to be left behind, he’d descended back into the warren of tunnels beneath the gallery. To his muted relief, Pickman’s body was where he’d left it, half the man’s face burnt away by lazfire and the rest already starting to decay. 

It had been a dreadful job, but together he and Nick had collected up the bodies of the dead and scavenged what they could from them, before leaving them in the main room of the gallery. With what little they’d been able to scavenge - which included a Ripper whose prior use he didn't want to think about but nonetheless added to his own person armory - and with his T-45 back under his control, they’d left that place of horrors behind and returned to the restaurant, leaving his Power Armor sat outside as they’d taken an evening meal. During it, he’d repaid Ernie and Jessica for their story with his own, getting the usual reaction: disbelief, utter shock, then absolute interest in the ways things were Before. After that, they’d all piled in here to take another look at the day’s ‘surprise’. 

Looking to his host, Richard smiled. “That it is, Ernie, that it is. Can you imagine a thousand of these things charging across the snows of Anchorage? It was...indescribable.”

“I’m not sure I want to.” Ernie chuckled. “Y’think you can make it work? Properly, I mean.”

“Given time, definitely.” Richard shrugged, before smirking over at him. “Why, wanna know when I can start teaching you to use it?”

“What you on about?” Ernie said, turning to him with a look like he’d just suggested inviting a Super Mutant clan over for whiskey and cigars. “This baby’s yours, not mine.” 

Richard blinked. “It was on _your_ barge. Even if you don’t wanna use it, you’d probably make a fortune selling it.”

“No, it’s yours and that’s final.” Ernie said, throwing up his hands in a gesture of refusal. “Right Jessica?” 

“Right.” his wife confirmed, crossing her arms. “You’re the only reason it’s here, so it’s yours. Besides, you’ll probably need it if you really mean to go after those guys at the Combat Zone.”

“That’s _if_ you’re still sure about that.” Ernie put in, concern obvious in his voice. “You don’t _need_ to, seriously.” 

“Yes, I do.” Richard answered, frowning slightly. “You’ve been good to me, better than pretty much anyone I care to name. And besides, I’m a Minuteman.” 

“About that.” Ernie said, crossing to one of the workbenches and leaning against it. “Me and Jess got to talking, whilst you and Nicky were off getting that other piece.” he jerked his head towards where the T-45 now stood as silent watchman in the access corridor. “We’ve decided that we wanna join the Minutemen, as a settlement, mind. We’re both neither of us the sort to go charging off into gunfights. But we can feed those that can, patch them up even, and give them a place to stay.” he spread his hands wide. “So what d’ya say, will you have us?”

Richard resisted the urge to smile. “Are you sure?”

“We’re sure.” Jessica confirmed. “Way we see it, things’ll never get better unless we work together. If that’s what you’re trying to do, then we’re with you. A hundred percent.” 

“Then welcome aboard.” Richard’s smile broke through and he stepped forward to shake both their hands. “And thank you, both of you.” 

“Always knew the pair of you were the right sort.” Nick said with a grin. “This confirms it for the hundredth time.” 

“Like I told you, Nicky,” Jessica replied, patting the synth detective on his shoulder with a smile. “Like attracts like.” 

Despite the long day, Richard let his military mind take over, forcing himself to work through the way Ernie and Jessica joining the cause would affect supply lines, what limited patrol routes they had up and running, and everything else that was involved now that he and Preston had started pulling the Minutemen back from the brink. Then he turned to more immediate matters. “Well since you’ve joined up, this makes things even simpler. You willing to have a few more guests?” 

“Like I said, pal,” Ernie answered, broad grin plastered across his face. “You send ‘em here, we’ll feed ‘em and give somewhere to sleep. Though they’ll only have a discount on the food and booze, not comped.” 

“That’s more than fair.” Richard chuckled, privately relieved that he wasn’t going to put them out too much on that score. “If you’ve got a radio that can send, I could get things going before we all bed down.” 

At the request, Ernie’s thick brows knitted. “Y’know, I think I do somewhere.”

A search of the workshop and its various bins of salvage and boxes of junk eventually turned up a ham radio. It was old and battered and needed a few wires splicing together, but sure enough eventually it crackled to life. Sitting down on a stool slid over to him by Nick, Richard started searching for Radio Freedom’s receiving frequency. It took a bit and in the process he picked up all manner of oddities from other broadcasts from out in the wasteland, along with the more regular signals from Diamond City Radio and that Classical channel, but eventually he had it zeroed in.

Picking up the microphone, Richard made the call. “Radio Freedom, Radio Freedom, this is General Frost, are you receiving? I repeat, this is General Frost, are you receiving?”

For what seemed hours but was only moments there was nothing but crackling static, but then, still crackly and slightly distorted, the voice of Jefferson, the R.F Operator came through. _“Radio Freedom receiving, General, it’s good to hear from you. How can we assist?”_

“Tell Preston that I’ve managed to get a new settlement to join the cause.” Richard said, secretly amused at the fact that this time it was _him_ telling his friend about a new settlement. Looking at his Pip-Boy, he rattled off the map coordinates Preston would need to pinpoint the restaurant’s location using the map back at the Castle. “I also need a squad here to set up a defence perimeter. Is Oakes available?” 

Again the agonising wait filled with nothing but crackling static. Then: _"Can confirm, General: Oakes is on deck. Will dispatch him and two others with the necessary supplies to your location.”_

“Good job, Jefferson.” Richard smiled. “Over and out.” 

_“Godspeed, General.”_ The reply came after the delay. _“Castle over and out.”_

Setting down the microphone and switching the radio off, Richard span on his stool to look over at the assembled group. “Well that’s that sorted. They’ll be here within a day or two. So now I can stay here, if you’ll put up with me, and rest up. Then once they’ve arrived I’ll head out to that Combat Zone you mentioned and put an end to those raiders.” 

“Sounds great!” Ernie grinned, clapping his hands, before a puzzled look came to his face. “Though who’s that Oakes guy you were talking about? You asked for him deliberately.”

“Oakes is one of my best patrol leaders.” Richard explained, leaning forward on the stool. “He’s a ghoul, pre-War. Before everything, he was in the Army as part of the 2nd Armored. He’s a combat veteran _and_ he already knows how to use Power Armor.” Richard grinned and pointed towards the corridor. “He’ll probably kiss me when I tell him that T-45’s all his.” 

“Well we’ll be sure to welcome him and the others properly.” Jessica smiled, before her face turned to an expression of concern. “And you should be getting to bed, Richard. You’ve had a long day for your first out of bed after injuries like those. Won’t be much good to anyone if you’re dead on your feet.” 

Much as he wanted to protest, Richard knew it was true. He could feel grit in his eyes and a tiredness in his bones. Now that things were in hand, it seemed he was finally letting himself feel it. Nodding, he chuckled, throwing an informal salute her way. “Will do, Doc, will do.”

“Come on, partner,” Nick said, walking up and taking one of his arms. “Let’s get you up and then I’ll take watch. Not like I need sleep.” 

“Night all.” Richard yawned as he half-walked, half-let himself be led towards the stairs. It was echoed back at him before Ernie and Jessica left the workshop to head back to the restaurant and their rooms above it. 

As he lay back in his bed and pulled the blanket over him, his boots at the foot of the bed and both his 10mm and Pip-Boy sitting on the table next to him, Richard sighed. It wasn’t everyday you met genuinely good people. They’d been rare enough even before the War. But in Ernie and Jessica he’d found a pair of paragons and, he felt, good friends should time allow. He’d do his best to keep them safe, to keep their kindness in the world a bit longer. Tomorrow he’d start sketching out plans for walls and defences. With a bit of luck and some elbow grease, this place could become more than just a restaurant and rest stop. It might even become a full-fledged township. But that was for another time.

It was just as he was about to surrender to sleep that he realised with a groan that he’d missed something. 

He’d not had that shower. 

Cursing himself for a fool, he nonetheless let himself slip away into a deep and - for one of the first times in a good long while - contented sleep. What was better, he slept entirely without dreams.

* * *

“I just want to thank you both again.”

Three days later, Richard stood in the street outside the restaurant, looking down at Ernie and Jessica from within his newly renovated rig of T-51 power armor, the helmet of which was resting at his feet. The time spent repairing it had been well-spent in every meaning of the phrase: it had consumed nearly all his waking hours. Some of the actuators had needed all-out replacing, more than one of the armor pieces reshaping so it fit and moved together smoothly. Then there’d been the plates’ surfaces: two hundred years in a damp container had done them no good whatsoever. It’d taken hours, rubbing the tarnish off the ablative silver-composite, which had then needed respraying to seal it. Luckily Ernie and Jessica’s workshop had had some black paint that’d served perfectly. Out in the morning sun, for a little while until the dust of the wastes got to them, the curving armored plates shone like polished onyx.

Truly, there was really nothing like a suit of T-51. It felt good to be back in one again. 

“You don’t need to, Rick.” Ernie said, reaching up to put a hand to one massive shoulder-plate. “You’re good people. It was our pleasure.”

“Especially after all you’ve done for us.” Jessica added, tilting her head at where Oakes - happily ensconced in his old Minutemen-painted suit of T-45 - was hauling some of the bags of cement he'd 'liberated' from Vault 114 over to a mixing barrel to add to the slowly growing perimeter walls. Every spare moment he’d had these last few days had been plotting the works-to-be with Ernie and Jessica. Once everything was done, they’d have nearly two whole blocks to play with. Room to grow. Oakes had also brought word that one of the old Minutemen from before the organisation’s fall had arrived at the Castle just before they’d left and wanted to see the new General. Which meant he had something else to check up on after the business of clearing the Combat Zone was dealt with.

Smiling at the pair of them, Richard lifted his eyes to where, on the roof of the restaurant, another of the three Minuteman who’d arrived had taken up a watchman’s perch, scanning all the lines of approach alongside Betsy the Turret. “Look after them well, Isaac! I’ll be checking in!”

“Will do, sir!” the marksman called down, raising a hand in salute. 

“Hopefully you’ll be doing more than that.” Jessica said, dragging his eyes back down. At his raised eyebrow, she continued. “Me and Ernie have discussed it: the room you’ve been staying in’s yours. For good. No charge.” 

“Only if you want it, of course.” Ernie added hurriedly, half-grinning. “Wouldn’t blame you if living next to a Pizza Parlor wasn’t your first bet.”

The offer rocked Richard back on his heels, if only mentally. They weren’t just offering him a bed, they were offering him a _home_ . Something he’d not had in a long time. Sanctuary wasn’t his any more, the memories it dragged up were too painful, and sure the Castle was a brilliant _base_ . But a home? Somewhere to _live_? 

“You sure about this?” he asked, eyes darting between the two of them. 

“Rick, buddy, you’re a good guy who’s trying to make this crummy world a better place.” Ernie answered, fixing him with a look that told him they were serious. “As neighbors go, there ain’t many that’d fit the bill better.” 

“If you ain’t sure yourself, just-” Jessica began, but he cut her off happily. 

“Sure! That’d be...that’d be great.” he smiled softly, before cocking an eyebrow. “You’re okay with dogs, right?”

“Why, you got one?” Ernie asked, before shrugging at his nod. “Eh, just keep him away from the meat locker and don’t let him bother Moo-Moo and all’s good.” 

“Will do.” Richard nodded, confident Dogmeat would be okay with those terms. He was a good boy. 

“Well now that’s settled,” Ernie grinned again, gently punching his metal-clad arm. “You go do whatever derring-do it is you Minutemen get up to, _General._ ” 

“And say hi to Nicky from us, next time you see him.” Jessica added. Despite his misgivings at leaving him on his own to head to the Combat Zone, Nick had headed back to Diamond City the day before Oakes, Isaac, and Clay had arrived with their pack-brahmin loaded with building supplies. 

“You got it.” Richard’s smile was broad as he stooped to sweep first his duffel bag onto one massive shoulder and then his helmet. Just before he put it on, the smile became a smirk. “See you later, neighbors.” 

As he headed south, off to deal with whatever bandits were infesting this ‘Combat Zone’ with the laser rifle he’d cobbled together from his lazpistol and some spare parts in his hands, Richard was still smiling beneath his helmet’s grim mask. He couldn’t help it. He hadn’t felt this good in over a month. In over two centuries, technically. Though that good feeling and the smile faded as he scanned down one street and found himself staring at a sign for the gallery Pickman had laid claim to. That place would always have a dark spot in his memory. 

Considering it for a bit, he rolled his shoulder, hearing the clink of the few molotovs he had in one of the duffels pouches. 

As he resumed his trek south a few minutes later, the flames already starting to break through the gallery’s upper windows and send a plume of smoke towering into the morning air, the smile was back on his face. He had a home again. One with working lights, hot chow, good people. 

And working showers.

No matter how lukewarm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well if you got through all that, congratulations! I know it was a bit bigger than normal but it was both a turning point in Rick's life in the wastes and the end of the first part of the anthology. What's going to make the next parts different? Just the small matter of a certain Irish cage fighter. Yup, Cait's on her way, y'all!
> 
> Ernie, Jessica, the pizza place, and Moo-Moo aren't mine to claim credit for, I must be sincere. Whilst I added my own spin to them and gave them backstories etc, they're originally the work of Mccx99 over on Bethesda's mod page and their 'Ernie's Pizza Place' mod.


	6. A Bloody Beginning

Cait slammed the bat down, rewarded by the sweet sweet sound of a cracking skull. A few more hits and it burst like a ripe tarberry and she threw up her arms in celebration as Tommy announced her victory. Outside the cage, the raiders cheered or booed depending on if they’d bet on her or the twitching pile of shite staining the stage. She couldn’t care less, either way. Closing her eyes, she let it all wash over her, riding the familiar wave of euphoria that came with beating another one of these bastards to death.

_ “Hello, what's this? We have some new blood, folks! Come on down, let's get a good look at you!”  _

Her eyes snapped open at that, looking for the next roach she had to crush. But her vision was swimming, damn junk, and at first she couldn’t make out who Tommy was blathering on about. Then she saw it. A hulking figure in black-painted Power Armor. It wasn’t a raider, raiders didn’t wear anything that wasn’t covered in spikes, blood, and their own shite. And if they weren’t a raider in the Combat Zone place then-

“Wait, who let you... buddy, I'd find some cover. Quick!” Tommy gabbled, pulling at her arm as he scrambled towards the corner of the ring. Part of her wanted to tear her arm away and sock the ghoul in his rotted face, the last traces of the Psycho screaming at her to do so, but she went with him, ducking down with him just as the first gunshots crackled out. But whilst Tommy snivelled and whimpered, keeping his head down, she kept her eyes on the action. 

The stranger weren’t half bad. Even as bullets pinged off the black plates around ‘em, they just poured down fire from an automatic laser rifle, the red beams scorching the air as they strode down the stairs and towards the stage. She smirked as Tommo got his head removed by one of them as he stood to shoot, actually yelled out encouragement as Dana took three of them to the chest and dropped screaming to the floor. 

When the rifle went dry she thought the stranger’d back down, get to cover and reload. But they didn’t. They simply dropped the thing, then pulled a large pistol and a bloody  _ Ripper _ from where’d they’d somehow been stuck to the outside of their armour. With a squeeze of the trigger, they sent a burst of 10mm into the brain of some asshole she didn’t know, before accelerating into a lumbering sprint up the ramshackle ramp to where a few of the raiders were huddled behind the bar, taking increasingly godawful potshots as they pissed themselves. 

Erasing one of them’s face with another burst and plugging a second in the guts, they dealt with the last of the three with the Ripper. The short chainsaw growled, its jagged teeth whirring, before a scream echoed through the theater as the stranger tore the poor bastard’s chest open with it. Cait’s smirk became a savage grin. This one wasn’t just half-bad, they were  _ good. _ Even just watching them had fire coursing in her veins, the thrill of the fight in her chest. 

Flicking blood and torn organs off their ripper, the stranger took a round to their helmet from down below, the rifle bullet knocking a small dent in the armor before pinging away. Without a word, or even so much as a fuckin’  _ grunt _ , they slowly turned and looked at the raider who’d done it, the single eyeslit in metal mask  _ glaring _ at them. Poor bastard all but dropped his gun trying to cycle the bolt and before they could the stranger took a running leap down on top of them. Cait had bashed in too many skulls to remember, but she’d never seen a person explode as viscerally as that fucker did when what had to be a ton of angry power armor dropped down on top of them. 

Blasted in gore, the stranger got up from where they’d driven a knee through the sorry shite and into the floor just as another scream split the air. One of sheer  _ fury _ . Hopped up on fuck knows what, some crazy bastard ran at the stranger who was busy tearing every raider in the place a new one without breaking stride with only a baseball bat. The look on the daft sod’s face when the thing shattered on the black chestplate made her hoot with laughter. 

In answer to that bloody pathetic effort, the stranger rammed the Ripper in their left hand through the idiot’s chest, tearing their lungs to shreds as they revved the blade’s vicious teeth. Then, in a move that had her cheering just out of sheer entertainment, they hoisted the stupid bastard up and span around, using his body as a shield against a new spattering of gunfire as they walked towards the last few raiders in the joint, answering with bursts from their own auto-pistol. The 10mm tore into them, taking one in the chest and another in the face. 

_ “Die you fucking, fucking FUCKER!” _

Cait’s stomach lurched involuntarily as she heard the desperate yelling of the last man standing and she fucking hated that.  **Stratton** . He was pouring every last bullet he could from his pipe gun at the swiftly approaching stranger, but the .38s just bounced off the black armor plating as they tossed their ‘shield’ off their chainsaw. Down to nothing, that bastard Stratton simply picked up a machete and ran howling at them, barreling straight into a cross-cut from the Ripper that tore his guts to shreds. She didn’t know whether to curse or cheer as the stranger burst his head like an overripe tato with a stomp of one armoured boot. That fucker had been  _ hers  _ to kill, dammit. 

For the first time in what seemed ages, everything was quiet in the Combat Zone. Whilst Tommy kept gabbling, she just watched as the stranger retrieved first their rifle and then a large green dufflebag from where they’d dropped it at the doors. Both slung over one massive armoured shoulder, they walked back and headed up the steps to the cage. 

“I guess that could've gone worse.” Tommy grumbled as he got himself up off the ground and patted down his stupid patched suit.

At that, Cait had to chuckle, even as she gave the stranger another, slower, look up and down as he entered the cage. “I dunno. Seemed quite the performance from where I was standin'.”

“Are you fucking high or something?” Tommy growled, rounding on her, before throwing up a hand. “Why am I asking, of course you are.”

“Still won the fight, didn’t I?” she snapped, fed up of him always prodding her on that score, what the fuck did it matter?

“Yeah and you looked about one slip away from falling onto your own knife.” Tommy shot back, before sighing and turning back to the blood-spattered stranger as they stepped up to them. “Course, I suppose you ain't got to worry about that now. Seems  _ this one  _ just put us out of business.”

“I’m sorry?” came a voice channeled through the armour’s speakers. Despite the confusion it was strong, decidedly male. “I heard raiders had taken over this place, thought you guys might be in trouble.”

“Trouble?” Tommy scoffed and she fought down the urge to do likewise. “Nah. But keeping those idiots entertained was what kept the lights on. Not exactly sure what we're gonna do now. You mind taking that helmet off? I like to see who I’m talking to.” 

As the stranger shrugged his massive shoulders and reached for his helmet, she turned back to her ‘manager’. “To hell with 'em. More'll come. Just need a quick breather and I'll be ready to…” 

Her words trailed off as the helmet came away, revealing the stranger’s face beneath it. It wasn’t what she’d expected  _ at all _ . She’d expected some gruff and grizzled hardcase, all scars and with a face like a slapped arse. He did _have_ scars - one across his lip and another flicking up from his left brow - and a short-cropped beard but despite them and the fact his cool brown hair was plastered to his head he looked... _ nice.  _ Good jawline, unbroken nose, and aquamarine eyes that had a shine to them that was more than adrenaline and exhilaration. 

She was about to smile in appreciation when Tommy pulled the rug out from under her and started trying to hand her over to him like a pile of unwanted trash. After all these years and he was just gonna throw her aside, just like every other fucking person in the world. Just as she started to really unload on the doublecrossing rotfaced bastard, the stranger’s voice cut across her.

“I’ll only take her with me if she _wants_ to come.” he said, the words strong, unyielding and...weirdly genuine. “ _ Her _ choice, not mine, not yours.” 

Between that and Tommy’s terrifyingly good point about otherwise being stuck alone with him for however long it took to get a new audience into the Combat Zone, it wasn’t long before Cait had gathered up what little shite she had - along with her stash - into a backpack and was walking out the door with the tall, handsome stranger who’d just walked in and offered her something she’d not had in a good long while. 

Choice. 

She didn’t trust him as far as she could throw his power armored arse, but that counted for something. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And away we go...
> 
> Hope you enjoyed that quick first meeting of our main couple, more to follow later in the week. As always, a comment and a kudos are more than welcome.


	7. Getting to Know You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because we all need a distraction today and because I might as well use the fact I can't simply relax, have another relatively quick chapter! Hope you all enjoy.

The tumblers clicked and the door swung open, revealing the interior of the bar that was going to be theirs for the night. Like every other abandoned pisshole in Boston, it wasn’t much to look at: ragged rugs on hardwood floors, furniture that was mostly broken, ransacked or both, and the familiar smell of dust, stale alcohol, and neglect. But such was life in the Commonwealth. Expect shite and you’ll never be disappointed. 

From behind her, Frost’s words echoed through his armour’s vox-speaker. “Nicely done.” 

Looking over her shoulder at where he stood - or more accurately, giving the armour’s height and bulk -  _ loomed _ , Cait shrugged. “Ain’t hard when you know how.” Not waiting for an answer, she pulled her lockpick out from the keyhole and grabbed up her rucksack before heading inside. “Shut the door when you’re in, lock like that’ll lock back up when you close it.”

“Got it.” Frost replied evenly, doing so. The image of a massive, power-armoured figure closing the door carefully so as not to slam it and alert any other bastard on the street more than his clomping tread already had woulda made her smile, had she been in the mood. But she wasn’t. 

Swinging up her bat to rest it on her shoulders, she gave the place a once over before heading for the stairs. “Might as well see if anyone’s home.” 

“Good call, you take upstairs I’ll take the back.” Frost answered, lowering the heavy-looking duffel bag he had over one armoured shoulder to the ground and flicking off the safety on his laser rifle. 

Grunting in reply, Cait did as she’d been gonna do before he said it. Upstairs was a whole bunch of fuck all. An office that netted nothing more than a couple of discarded bottlecaps and a pillow from a chair, the desk and cabinets full of paper not even good enough for use as asswipe. That aside, there wasn’t even anything - or anyone - to scrap with, not so much as a radroach to crush. Swearing impotently, she turned and left, heading for the bar. 

Frost was already done and waiting for her when she got back down. 

“Anything?” he asked, voice still made tinny by the helmet.

“It look like I’m carrying anything?” she shot back, before jerking her chin towards the back door he’d been heading towards. “You?”

“A stimpack and some bandages in the First Aid box.” he answered, before the black-painted helmet tilted slightly. “But unless you’ve got a hankering for two-hundred year old toilet water, nothing.” 

“ _ Har-har _ .” she muttered, annoyed. “Clever one, ain’t ya?” 

“I have my moments.” She couldn’t see it, but she could sure as shite  _ hear _ the grin on his face. 

“Anything left in this place that  _ is _ worth drinking?” she sighed, looking over at the decidedly bare shelves behind the bar and the empty bottles on top of it. After a day like today - where most of the people she’d known the past three years, even if she hadn’t  _ liked _ them, had been killed by the man standing in front of her and she’d been kicked out of the closest thing to home she had - she needed a good stiff drink. 

“Don’t know, let me check.” and with that, Frost did something and the back of his armour folded up and outwards, letting her get a look at him properly for the first time as he stepped out of it. 

Even without the armour, he was tall. Taller than her or most of the raiders she’d known. He was dressed in olive-green fatigues like she’d seen Gunners wearing, but wore them in a different, far smarter way than she’d ever seen those assholes do. All the buttons were done up, for one, and his pants were neatly tucked into his boots. That, the gizmo on his wrist, and the lack of any facial tats told her he wasn’t with them. Which was good: his earlier kindness back at the Zone - where he’d refused to let Tommy palm her off on him unless she agreed - or not, if he’d been a Gunner she’d have shot him in the face and been done with it. After the raiders, after  _ Stratton _ , after every bastard she'd had to endure since she was eighteen, she’d not be with raiders or the like again. Not for all the Psycho or booze in the world. 

Heading behind the bar, she expected him to simply look at what was hidden out of their sight on the opposite side. Instead, with a disturbing sense of certainty, he walked halfway down its length and tossed a dust-laden mat onto the bar, sending dustmotes swirling into the stale air. Moving closer to keep an eye on him, she watched as he opened up a bloody  _ trapdoor  _ that’d been set into the floor and disappeared down a set of metal steps. 

“You a whiskey drinker?” his voice echoed up from the hole in the floor, from which now shone a dull green light.

Blinking back her surprise, she called down. “Sure, whatever’s there!” 

In moments he was back, half a dozen bottles the richer. With dull thuds, he placed each on the bar. Not even caring as to what they were, Cait snatched up two of them and headed for where a pair of sofas sat facing each other in the far corner. Looking over her shoulder as Frost closed the trapdoor and picked a metal mug off of a nail on the wall, she threaded her way through the abandoned tables and barstools, before collapsing onto the far sofa with a grunt. The blasted thing was more spring than anything, but at least nothing was stabbing her. She'd made that mistake once, never again. 

Setting one of the bottles down, she cracked open the other and took a hefty swig. The whiskey slid down easy, leaving its familiar burn in its wake. Frost was still over by the door by the time she lowered the bottle, grabbing something from out of his duffel bag. It turned out to be a thick-looking jacket made out of brown leather, along with a smaller bag of something. He took both and a bottle from the bar and brought them over, dropping the bag onto the table before he sat down opposite her. 

“Brahmin jerky, according to the butcher who sold it to me.” he explained, sighing as he sat down. “Help yourself.”

For a long moment, Cait looked from him to the bag and back again. What was his game? Trying to butter her up before making a pass? Then, hunger overriding any other questions, she reached over and snatched up a piece of the air-dried meat, softening it up in her mouth with more whiskey as she started chewing. She watched as Frost, now wearing the leather jacket - obviously pre-War and lined with some soft-looking material - poured the contents of his bottle into the metal mug and knocked it back with ease. Nicely done bit of work. 

Swallowing the ball of half-chewed jerky and chasing it down with even more of the whiskey, Cait cocked an eyebrow at her new….whatever he counted as now. Even if he technically had her contract, it was obvious from how he’d acted back at the Combat Zone he didn’t intend to act on it. “So how’d ya know this stuff was down there? It your own private stash or somethin’?” 

Frost smiled at that, running a hand through hair still slightly sweaty from the confines of his helmet. “No, it’s not mine. I used to come here now and again back in the waybackwhen. Oscar always kept the good stuff hidden down there so he wouldn’t get booked for having more than he should by Ration Agents.” 

Cait’s brow furrowed. “That bullet you took to the helmet rattle your brain or somethin’? What are you on about?” 

Frost’s answer was to take another gulp of whiskey. “This is going to sound...odd...but you should know if we’re going to be travelling together. I take it you clocked this?” He held up his left arm and shook the Pip-Boy affixed to his wrist. 

“Kinda hard to miss.” Cait answered, her expression unchanged save for a touch more wariness. If this guy was nuts, she was  _ gone _ .

“So you know that means I was in a Vault.” he continued, those blue-green eyes not leaving hers. 

“Or you chopped it off the arm of some poor sap in a blue jumpsuit.” Cait smirked despite herself, taking another gulp of whiskey.

“Right.” Frost joined her in the smirk, before it faded and his eyes left hers and fixed on the table between them, looking but not really seeing. “The Vault I was in - Vault 111 - they were experimenting with cryogenic suspension. They froze us, kept us alive, but asleep.”

Cait scoffed. “Sounds like something outta a bad comic book.” 

“Trust me, it was, I’ve read a few.” Frost’s lips twitched. “But the upshot is, I was on ice for a  _ very _ long time.” His eyes flicked back up then and locked on hers. She’d lived with liars all her life and she didn’t see any bullshit in those eyes, no matter what he said next. “I was born before The War, Cait. Before all of this. I’m two-hundred and thirty-seven years old.” 

The words hung in the air between them as Cait took in both the truth and the meaning of them. He’d been alive when the word wasn’t just a burnt cinder of a shitepile, before when there was a fair-to-even chance the person you saw in the street was going to rob ya, kill ya, or rape ya in whatever order they fancied, before ghouls and mutants and synths and everything she’d ever known. 

Blinking at that, she simply leant across and clinked her bottle against his. “Shite.” 

Her pronouncement made him chuckle. “Yeah, that about sums it up.” Leaning back against the sofa, he took another drink. “How about you, where’re you from?”

Cait bit back the urge to snap that it was none of his sodding business even as she crammed the memories the question had dredged up back down. “Nowhere special, some shitehole south aways. Outside the Commonwealth.” 

“Not Ireland?” Frost asked, picking up another piece of jerky and popping it in his mouth.

She rolled her eyes at the question she’d answered a hundred times. “No, not fuckin’ Ireland. Not sure when or who came across from there, but it wasn’t fuckin’  _ me.  _ Alright?” 

“All right.” Frost answered, holding up his free left hand in surrender as his right tipped more whiskey down his gullet.

Talk between them petered along after that, as the night got increasingly darker. She wasn’t surprised to find out he’d been a soldier in the world before the war. Having seen him kill more than a dozen chemmed-up raiders while moving better in a suit of power armor than some people did using their own soddin’ feet, it would’ve been weird if he hadn't been one. Eventually even the Psycho in her blood couldn’t stop her lids from dropping and she yawned. 

“Time we were in bed, methinks.” Frost chuckled, his voice only having the slightest slur to it. Impressive, considering how much booze they’d both put away.

“Yeah, you’re right there.” Cait answered, digging her blanket from out of her bag as he did likewise, stretching himself out on the sofa. Under her own blanket, the night air suddenly seemed to press in on her, raising gooseflesh on her bare arms. Perhaps it was the last of the Psycho leaving her system. She’d have to wait for him to fall asleep before shooting up again, wasn’t going to suffer through any more shite on that score. Frost could put away the booze alright, but he didn’t strike her as particularly chem-happy. 

Gritting her teeth, she rubbed at her arms beneath the blanket, trying to get the blood flowing through them. “Fuckssake.”

From across the way, his back to her, Frost spoke up. “You know if you’re cold, you could always-”

At the start of something she’d heard too many bloody times in her life Cait’s blood  _ ignited  _ and she shot up, throwing aside her blanket as she glared daggers down at the man lying opposite her.. “If you fuckin’ say “Join me under here” I’ll feed you your own-!”

“ _ Borrow my jacket. _ ” Frost finished, voice as cold and hard as his name. Even lying down, he didn’t  _ back _ down. 

The rage she’d felt bled away from Cait in an instant. “Oh.” In its place rose confusion and an awkward, self-directed anger. “Thanks, I guess. Don’t ya need it?” 

Sitting up, he shook his head. “After learning to get to sleep hip-deep in a blizzard outside Anchorage and then spending over two centuries on ice? I’ll live.” 

Dropping back down onto her couch, Cait rubbed at her face, annoyed with herself and him and the whole fuckin’ world. “Sure, sure. If you’re still willin’.” 

“Of course.” Frost answered, slipping out of the thing and tossing it over to land on the cushion next to her. 

For a moment she simply stared at it, part of her not wanting to pick it up. But eventually she reached over and pulled it on, drawing up the zip to close it about her. The soft inner lining was warm, both from the fleece itself and from his body heat. Even still, she felt uncomfortable wearing it. Uncomfortable  _ accepting _ it. But warmth was warmth and so she lay back down, grabbing her blanket from where she’d flung it and throwing it over herself. 

“Thanks, Frost.” she said eventually, into the night air rather than directly at him.

“No problem, Cait.” he answered back, before adding after a bit more silence. “And Cait?”

Sighing slightly, she rolled onto her side and cracked open one eye to look across the way to find his gaze locked on her in the dim light of his Pip-Boy’s screen. When he continued his voice was as strong as it had been in the Combat Zone, when he’d demanded coming with him be  _ her _ choice, rather than his or Tommy’s. “You never need to worry about  _ that _ with me. I’m not them.”

For a long moment she simply stared back at him, taking in the words. Not only their meaning but the honesty and certainty with which he’d said them. She still didn’t trust him, didn’t trust  _ anyone _ . But she accepted that right now, right here, he meant them. Nodding her answer, she rolled back and closed her eyes. 

“G’night, Frost.” she said, settling into the springy sofa cushions as best she could. 

“Pretty sure I told you my first name was Richard.” he answered back, dryly. 

“You did.” she shrugged beneath her blanket, a slight smile kinking her lips before she added. “G’night,  _ Rick. _ ”

A chuckle met that. “Good night, Cait. See you in the morning.” 

Drawing her blanket tighter around her, Cait let a long day and the booze take her and - despite her plan to shoot up - soon fell away into the blackness of a dreamless sleep. She didn’t trust anyone, let alone the man beside her. But he’d do. 


	8. Drinks and Distraction

“Bloody shiteing-arse rain.” Cait hissed, shaking her head to get the worst of it out of her hair as soon as the Dugout’s door closed behind them. 

“You know, you _could_ buy a hat or a hood while we’re in town.” Frost said, voice distorted by his power armor’s vox-speakers before, with a hiss as its seals disengaged, he took it off. “You’ll have the caps for it, once you sell that spare gear we’ve got.” 

Cait scoffed. Sure, they were working on good terms: an equal share of whatever loot they’d collected on the way down here from the Combat Zone along with what stuff they’d salvaged from the bastards Frost had killed in the Zone itself, but she knew _exactly_ what she was going to be buying with the caps she made from selling the spare gear she had in a pack slung over her shoulder and it wasn’t going to be fuckin’ _hat._ She’d already spotted the chem dealer’s. “Or maybe I should get a tin can like yours, eh? Can’t be that hard to drive.” 

“Sure, it’s not hard at all.” Frost shrugged, before he called over his shoulder as he walked down the corridor to the bar. “Long as you don’t mind muscle tears and ripped tendons.” 

Cait scowled at his retreating back before she adjusted her pack and followed him, brushing rain droplets from the jacket she was wearing. _His_ jacket, technically, but he hadn’t asked for the sodding thing back yet. When she’d asked if he’d wanted it back that morning, he’d simply shrugged and said he’d be warm enough in his armor. She didn’t know what his game was, but it’d been good to have something warm over her corset when the rain had come down.

Stepping into the main room of the bar, every pair of eyes in the place snapped to them. Not hard to imagine why, especially with the seven foot tall behemoth of black metal standing next to her. She briefly scanned them, looking for anything other than curiosity. Apart from one leering shitebag she told to fuck off with a glare, which had ‘em looking hurriedly back down at whatever shite was on their plate, she didn’t find anything. She coulda looked longer, but fuck ‘em, she needed a goddamn _drink_. 

Walking up to the bar next to Frost, she saw the guy behind it had a stupid grin on his face. Not a bad looker though, if you liked the type. She’d never had a type. Never had a choice. 

“Ah-ha-ha! Rick!” the barman’s booming voice rang against the concrete walls. The bloody hell was that accent? “My favourite friend who stomps around in two tons of metal returns! Is that a new suit? Very nice!” 

“Good to see you, Vadim. Though for the last time it’s nowhere _near_ two tons.” Frost grinned, before tilting his head in the direction of where- _what the shite, there were TWO of them?_ “Got any rooms open?”

“ _Da_ , my friend.” the barman nodded. “We have rooms.”

“Just the one, Vadim!” his double yelled angrily from where he was sat reading something. 

‘Vadim’ gave a heavy sigh and rolled his eyes. “All right, we have _room._ Will that be enough for you and your” there was the slightest pause as he looked to her, then back to Frost. “New friend?”

“Will it?” Frost asked, looking to her. There was no invitation or joke in the words. Just simple curiosity. He was an odd one, him. Never known the like, which wasn’t good. 

“Course it’s fine.” she answered, leaning against the bar. “Don’t be daft.” 

“Then we’ll take it.” Frost said, turning back to Vadim. Opening the duffelbag he’d set down at the bar, he pulled out a bag of caps and dropped it onto the bar. “60 caps, both for the room and an advance on food and drink.”

“As you say, _tovarisch_.” the man chuckled, whatever the hell that word meant. “You want to drink now, or to ‘freshen up’?” 

“Second one, I think.” Frost answered, sweeping up his bag before turning to her. “You want to come with or would you like a drink first?”

“That’s a stupid question.” she shot back, though with a bit of a smile, before turning back to the bar. “Three whiskeys.”

“Aha!” the barman crowed. “Rick, I like this one!” 

“Enjoy.” Frost said, a smile on his face, before heading for the room. A nice smile. She didn’t trust it. She didn’t trust anyone or anything, but she especially didn’t trust _nice_. All nice means is someone’s trying to take something from you or put something in you. 

_‘I’m not them.’_

Frost’s words from the night before rang in her head and she shook them away, not wanting to think about it. About what it meant if nice was just...nice. Thankfully at that moment whiskey was poured into the first of the three glasses that ‘Vadim’ had set up on the bar. The first whiskey was down her gullet before the last had been poured. 

“So, _lapochka_ , how long you been running with my friend Rick?” he asked, fixing her with an inquisitive look. She wanted to tell him to shag off, but he looked the kind that’d keep talking anyway. 

“A day or so.” she answered, downing the second one, feeling its burn. She tapped the first glass, a silent order to refill it. “Used t’be a fighter up in the Combat Zone.” 

“Ah, the Zone!” ‘Vadim’s’ eyes lit up. “That was...that was _raider_ bar, yes?” The word made others look over, but she didn’t care a shite. She’d given them a once over: most of them were soft city folk, only one - the guy in the road leathers - had the look of a fighter. She could take all of them on and not even break a fuckin’ sweat. 

“It was.” she answered, necking the third before picking up the refilled first and grinning at the memory. “Until Frost killed all the raiders in it. Dozen chemheads armed to hell and back and he went through them like shite through a brahmin.”

That made the man cackle. “That sounds like Rick! No friend to the raider, that one.” 

Twitching her eyebrows in silent agreement, she knocked back the fourth. The whiskey was good and warm, the buzz from it starting to strengthen the fading effects of the Psycho she’d taken about an hour back when Frost had ducked into a ruined store to scavenge. But neither the booze nor the junk could deaden the fact that she was standing in sopping clothes, her pants cold and clammy against her legs. 

“I’ll be back.” she said, putting the glass onto the bar upside down as a flourish, before snatching up her bag and heading to where she’d seen Frost go. The double sat reading his book didn’t even look up, simply telling her that they were in Room 2. 

Opening the door without a care for knocking, she nonetheless slid to a stop at what she saw. Rick was out of his armor, which stood silently at the side of the couch he’d obviously claimed for himself. He was out of the fatigues he’d been wearing as well. All he had on was a pair of faded jeans and his travel-worn boots. For a long moment Cait just took in the sight of him. Beneath the loose-fitting fatigues had been hiding something _bloody good_. 

Stood stock still, her eyes traveled along the muscles of his arms, over the soddin’ _glory_ of his chest. She’d seen a lotta chests in her life, but not one like this. Life in the wastes trimmed you down, unless you were some fatass like the rich folk here, it didn’t leave you lookin’ like _that_ . Even those hopped up on strength-chems didn’t look this good; they ended up lookin’ somebody had blown them up. He looked like he’d been soddin’ _sculpted_ outta solid rock. Even the scars to his chest and arm, fresh and red, didn’t take away from that. If anything, they _added_ to the image in front of her.

“Something up, Cait?” the words dragged her eyes upwards, to where his eyes were looking into hers, a slight smile kinking his scarred lips. The words were genuine as ever, not some sly sorta come-on.

Her mind scrambled, until the whiskey answered for her and she matched his smile. “Shite, Rick, you been doing Buffout when I haven’t been lookin?” Not quite deliberately, her eyes slid down again before she dragged them upwards again. 

He chuckled at that. “No, don’t touch the stuff. Saw what it did to some friends back in the army.” her smile broadened as he reached up and the muscles of his arms and chest shifted, before they were covered as he pulled on the t-shirt he’d been holding. “That’s just hard work and days spent lugging that bucket around.” A jerk of his head indicated the suit of black power armor. 

Shaking herself out of her distraction, she shut the door behind her. “Gave me the bed I see.” Flicking out an arm, she tossed her bag on top of the ratty-looking mattress. It squeaked alarmingly at the impact. 

“Thought I was being kind, now I’m not so sure.” he answered, with another chuckle, as he looked up from buckling on a gun belt that had his 10mm in its holster. 

Walking over, Cait sat down on the edge of the bed, the mattress squeaking just the same as when the bag had hit it and proving itself - yup- to be more spring than mattress. She looked up, letting her eyes drift momentarily at the way Rick’s t-shirt pulled tight across his chest as he slipped a black vest on. “I’ll forgive ya just this once. We stay here again though, that couch is _mine._ ” 

“Deal.” he answered, smiling again as he pulled the satchel that held his caps from his massive duffelbag and slipped it over his head, letting it hang on the opposite hip to his pistol. After a patdown of himself that she watched with a bit of interest, he looked up and their eyes met again. She had to give it to him, he had nice eyes. Blue-green.

Blinking her own, Cait jerked a head towards the door. “Well go on then, get on with ya. You ain’t getting a show in return.” She meant the words, but the scowl she meant to give never showed. That and the chill she felt despite the whiskey’s warmth told her that the Psycho was out of her system. 

With a nod of the head, Frost headed for the door. “Want me to order some food?”

“Sure, sure,” she answered, not looking at him as she started unlacing one of her boots. “Whatever’s going.” 

“Got it.” And with that the door opened and closed behind him. 

Kicking off her boots, she unbuckled her belt and slid her pants off. She tossed them over the back of a chair facing a desk that’d been set next to the door, it’d do for a drying rack as good as anything. The gooseflesh the cold air raised on her already chilled legs made her wince and so she set about rubbing both blood and a bit of warmth into them. As she did so, her mind replayed over in her head the little show she’d walked into. Frost was an odd one, but damn he looked good. Still rubbing at her legs, her smile crept back across her face as memory turned into fantasy. 

_Running her hands over that chest, breath hot and close against it. Getting pulled close into those arms. Looking into those deep blue-green eyes as her fingers explored the muscles of his back whilst he-_

She shook her head, tossing away the thought, angry at herself. Where the fuck had this come from? This wasn’t her, goddammit. After everything had happened, after _Stratton,_ why the fuck was she letting herself think like this? She didn’t want that. Not again. Not ever. If she ever shagged anyone again, it’d be someone guaranteed to leave after they were done and who she’d never see again. Not that and not him. And if he ever fuckin’ asked-

_“I’m not them.”_

She shook the memory away, even angrier now. She had to stop bloody thinking about this shite.

Running dry, that was it. 

Reaching over, she dragged her pack over to her and dug a hand inside, finding her stash by feel rather than by sight. Pulling out a dose of Psycho, she slammed its broad needle - why the hell had they made these fuckers so big? - into her thigh and pushed the plunger down. In an instant, everything was better. She rode the familiar high, the adrenaline surging through her like nothing else could match. Not drink, not sex, not even a fight. With it came the comforting warmth that she wrapped herself into.

Tossing the drained syringe back into her pack - some dealers gave you a discount if you had an empty to refill - she pulled out a spare pair of pants and pulled them on. That was all she needed: Frost’s jacket had kept the rain off her top and being honest, with a fresh dose in her blood she didn’t care anyway. She had all the warmth she needed in her now. So she simply redid her boots, chucked her pack under the bed, and headed back out into the bar. 

Vadim was still at the counter, whilst Ric- _Frost_ was over by the entrance, looking at some shite some sap had put up there in hopes of probably having something or someone killed. 

Leaving him to it, she walked up to the bar. “Hey handsome, you got anything special behind this thing?” It wasn’t a complete lie, nor was the smile on her face. He wasn’t bad to look at after all. Strong jaw, broad face, dark eyes.That said, of the two she’d take Rick over- _“Where the fuckin’ shite has this fuckin’ come from?”_

Her attention was dragged from that blood-boilin’ and decidedly un-bloody comfortable thought by the heavy _thunk_ of a ceramic jug being all but slammed down on the bar in front of her. 

“Bobrov’s Best.” the barman said, crossing his arms with a grin across his face. “Is greatest moonshine ever to cross lips, lapochka. Very strong. Very good.”

The smile she had on her face turned into a rictus-grin. “Perfect.” 

If it was as good as he said, that’d work to scrub out these stupid fuckin’ thoughts.

* * *

_Author's Note: Well there we have the first spark of things to come, hope you all enjoyed it! And just in case you were wondering just what Cait saw when she opened that door, here you go:_

_See you all soon!_


	9. The Clothes Make The Man

“So this your place?”

Richard turned his head at Cait’s question, looking over one of his armor’s massive pauldrons to see her looking up at The Castle looming bulk. 

“Yes, this is it.” he answered, looking back at the fortress he had helped take back. “It’s real name is Fort Independence. Most people just call it The Castle.”

“You and your Minutemen might be daft sods helping people for nout,” she continued, her tone considerate rather than caustic as she stepped up beside him, resting the double barrels of her shotgun on one shoulder. “But you don’t half make a statement with a base like that.” Brow furrowing, she jerked her chin towards the walls. “What happened there?” 

“Mirelurk Queen, years ago, before my time.” Rick explained, looking from her to the walls. Reconstruction had started in accordance with his orders whilst he’d been away. Now the old stones of the fort's walls were being reinforced with concrete and steel, the breaches the Queen had made years ago finally starting to close. “Had to take her down to take the place back. She didn’t make it easy.” 

“Ha!” Cait grinned suddenly, face lighting up with the expression. “Woulda liked to have seen that fight. How’d you take her out?”

“Nothing special.” Richard shrugged, remembering the chaos of the moment, the looming bulk of the Queen, the hiss of her acid as it sprayed through the air. “Shot a missile into what passed for her face.” 

That made Cait bark another laugh. “ _ Nice. _ ” 

“Still can’t believe you let Miles have that story.” Piper grumbled from over his other shoulder. 

At that he chuckled. It had been weeks and still Piper hadn’t let that one go. “He needed a win, Piper. It made a great story to ring in his new confident self.” Rolling a shoulder to adjust the duffelbag slung over it, he tilted his head towards the gates. “Come on, time we were getting inside.” 

* * *

Walking across the Castle’s courtyard, Richard barely resisted the urge to smile. Things were going well. Along with the progress on the walls, the rest of the works he’d sketched out were well in hand. Every trace that the mirelurks that had infested the place had been there was gone; the northwest corner had been turned into a training area, with some of his new Minutemen doing pushups and others practicing with their laser muskets; a mess tent dominated the opposite corner, with tables and chairs set up both inside and outside of it; and sandbags had started to be piled along the edges of the walls’ parapets to give the men and women patrolling them cover. 

His examination of the fortress rising around him was cut off by the sound of barking. Effortlessly threading through the legs of the people bustling through the courtyard, Dogmeat bounded up before skidding to a halt in front of him, eyes bright and tail wagging.

“Hey boy, you okay?” Rick asked, smile broad on his face as he knelt down to scritch his buddy behind his ears. He chuckled as his answer was given by Dogmeat putting his paws up on his power-armored knee and licking his face. “I missed you too.”

“So this mutt yours then?” Cait asked from behind him. The distaste was evident in her voice. He felt a momentary jolt of offense but quelled it. Considering what most dogs were like in the Commonwealth, he supposed he couldn’t blame her.

“Yes he is.” he answered, patting Dogmeat back down before standing up and stepping aside to introduce them. “Dogmeat, this is Cait. Cait, Dogmeat.” 

Dogmeat gave a happy bark in greeting, spinning on the spot. Cait said nothing, instead looking up as the familiar sound of a thruster drew near. 

“Mr Frost!” Codsworth called, his ever-cheery self, as he floated up. “It is  _ so _ good to see you again, Sir. Helping put this place into a semblance of proper order has been rewarding, but it’s not like being out and about beside you, doing the derring do you seem to get up to. Have you been well?” the robotic claw Codsworth had in place of a hand pointed upwards. “I notice a few more scars, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“I’m fine, Codsworth, just a scratch.” Richard answered, absently rubbing a thumb across the scar over his lips. Stepping aside again, he indicated Cait. “Codsworth, this is Cait, she’s travelling with us. Cait this is Codsworth, my robot butler from before The War.” 

Cait was standing stock still, her eyebrows having risen so far that they were in danger of being lost in her fringe. After blinking once or twice, she turned to look at him. “Me, a dog, a robot butler, that tin-pot detective we met in DC and  _ this one _ ,” she said, pointing a thumb at Piper. “You run with one hell of an odd group, Rick.” 

“Hey!” Piper put in, vaguely offended. 

“General!” another voice cut across any other discussion.

Preston was walking over from the northeast bastion, whilst half a step behind him followed an older woman, hard-bitten in appearance, dressed in faded military fatigues. That had to be this ‘Shaw’ woman that Oakes had half-told, half- _ warned _ him about. 

“Good to see you again, Preston!” he answered, putting up a hand in greeting. “Castle’s looking good as well. This is Cait, she’s going to be working with us.” 

“Good to see you too, sir. Good day, ma’am.” Preston said, nodding a greeting to Cait before turning back to him. “General Frost, this is-”

“I’m Ronnie Shaw,” the woman barked, all but pushing past Preston to stand in front of him. Despite having to look up at him thanks to the extra height granted by his Power Armor, her eyes were ice and her tone strong. Tough as rawhide. “And I can speak for myself, sonny.” 

Repressing a twitch of irritation at the disrespect she showed Preston, Rick turned it into a quizzical tilt of his head. “You’re the one Oakes told me about.”

“I haven’t the first idea who the hell that is, but yes.” the older woman answered. “Ain’t like you mistake me for one of these pups you've got running things around here. I used to be with the Minutemen myself, back before Joe Becker got himself killed and the idiots took over.” 

The only answer he had to that was to raise an eyebrow, his opinion on that implication made  _ perfectly  _ clear.

To her credit, it was understood. Smirking, she leant back, crossing her arms. “Easy there, cowboy. Joe Becker died years before you came along. I'm talking about the gang of clowns that let the Minutemen fall apart. I didn't respect any of them, so I took a vacation. Then I heard somebody was buildin’ em back up again, so I decided to take a look, see the new General for myself. Good thing I did too, ‘cause I can see you really need my help, sonny. I feel like some of these you've got still may need their diapers changed.”

At that, irritation became outright anger and he stamped one power armored foot forward, voice pitched low but edged with steel. “That’s _enough,_ Shaw. These men and women stepped up to the fight, when they could have just as easily kept their heads down like the rest of the Commonwealth. They should be commended for that, not mocked. And so help me God, you call me _‘sonny’_ or the like again and I’ll see how far these armored boots of mine can kick you out of this fort, is that understood?” 

Far from getting angry herself, Shaw gave a chuff of laughter, her smirk becoming a more genuine half-grin. “So you  _ do  _ have some backbone, that’s good. Confirms what I’ve been hearing about you. All good, to be clear. Only reason I came back.” 

Satisfied that they’d seemed to have reached an accord, Richard stepped back, out of her face. “You offering to rejoin?” 

“Got it in one, General.” she nodded. “You’ve been doing good work, here and elsewhere. But I reckon I’m the only one who can get you into the Castle’s armory. All of our best equipment was stored in there. Weapons, ammo, schematics, you name it.”

Richard’s eyebrows rose and his eyes lit up, looking first at the looming bulk of the west bastion, which had resisted all attempts at entry short of blowing a hole in it, and then back to her. A grin replacing the frown he’d been wearing, he replied. “Go on, Shaw, I’m listening..”

* * *

A rapid beep and the mine deactivated, the sound greeted by the relieved sighs of the others. Looking back over his shoulder, he saw them - Cait and Shaw, along with Codsworth- all picked out in the crimson light of the tunnels’ emergency lights. Dogmeat, Piper, and Preston he’d sent back above ground, no sense risking everyone in tunnels that had evidently been  _ somebody’s _ attempt at a last stand. They would come down if they’d not appeared in an hour or so, or if they heard anything apocalyptic going on down here. 

“I think that’s all of them.” he said, voice once again distorted by his helmet’s voxcaster. 

“Should be.” Shaw nodded. “Not much of these tunnels left to go before we hit the western bastion.”

“Even so, best keep our eyes peeled for anymore.” Cait hissed as they moved further down the winding series of tunnels. “I kinda like having legs, y’know?”

“I utterly agree, Miss Cait.” Codsworth added, before chuckling, as he floated at the column’s rear. “Even though I  _ do _ lack the appendages myself.”

Richard didn’t quite catch Cait’s muttered reply, though he could probably guess the gist of it. Eventually they reached a locked security door, no other way around it but through. Thankfully Shaw was able to get it open after a couple of tries, finally remembering the terminal’s passcode of “United We Stand”. But as she did so, the door’s lock disengaging and it swinging open on rusty hinges wasn’t the only thing that echoed through the tunnels. 

“ **_Movement Detected. Sentrybot designation SARGE powering up._ ** ”

“What the shite?” Cait cursed, gun up as they cautiously stepped through the door and into the final sections of tunnel.

“Well I'll be.” Shaw said, sounding honest-to-God  _ happy _ for the first time in his hearing. “I would've never guessed the Sarge would still be down here. Don't worry, it's one of ours.”

Sure enough, as they rounded a corner, there stood a powered-up sentry bot. The massive combat robot was daubed in faded and chipped blue paint, the lightning bolt and musket of the Minutemen emblazoned on its chestplate. Its red ‘eyes’ flickered behind its grill as it spoke again. “ **_Comparing intruders to known Minutemen roster._ ** ”

“Don’t worry, it’ll find me in that and-” Shaw began, relaxing, before there was a spark from where Frost knew the robot’s processor bank lay and the mechanical voice boomed out again.

_ “ _ **_Error. File corruption detected._ ** ” with that it’s red eyes shone brighter, glaring out at them. “ **_SentryBot: Initiating defensive protocols._ ** ” 

“Jiminy Cricket, he’s on the fritz!” Shaw yelled, even as the robots miniguns spooled up. 

“COVER!” Richard  _ roared  _ the word as he had so many times in Anchorage and the Yangtze basin. Without thought or consideration, he turned and practically  _ shoved  _ Cait back down the tunnel and into cover, even as Shaw dived after her. As he did so he felt the jarring impact of the first rounds slamming into his armor’s back. None got through, the plates held, and he powered after them, even as the robot’s treads ground forward behind him. 

“What’s the plan, General?” Shaw yelled, even as Cait swore loud and voluble curses over the rattle of machinegun fire and the brick chipping off the walls with every shot that slammed into and around their meagre cover. 

“Can’t use explosives, we’d bring the tunnel down on top of us. And if we shoot it enough, it’ll self-destruct and do the exact same thing!” he growled back. Then an idea came to him. It was mad, but it  _ could _ work. He’d only have seconds. If that. “Stay down, that’s an order.” 

If there was protest, he didn’t hear it. Leaning around the corner he fired a burst from his laser rifle at the looming monster of metal and machinery. Center mass, the lasers scorched into the thickest parts of the war-bot’s armor, blackening it but not punching through. That was exactly what he wanted. He needed it to keep working, keep expending energy. It did so with aplomb, letting loose another crackling burst of gunfire, the 5mm rounds pinging off his armor’s plating and tearing chunks from the brickwork. 

For moments that stretched out like hours he fired at the armored behemoth, keeping it occupied and forcing it to act. Then, finally, the moment came. The miniguns spun down, whirring in their emplacements, and the war machine came to a halt. With the grinding of its rusted chassis the back of its armored torso began to open. As it did, Richard surged forward, armored legs pumping and his ears deaf to the shouts of the others behind him. He had to do this and do it fast. He only had seconds to get this done.

Skidding around the towering war machine, he instinctively winced at the steam billowing from its back as it cooled its fuel cells. That was what he was after. Not to destroy, but to seize. Before the Sentry Bot could react, he’d snatched at the two fusion cores, the hydraulics of his armor groaning as he tried to rip them free. The heat coming off of them was intense, the heat-shielding of his armor’s plates just barely keeping the worst of it at bay. SARGE twisted, trying to protect its exposed power core. But as it began to slam the armor plates guarding them shut and as the heatshield to his rig’s hands began to fail he felt the give and then, to the sound of shrieking metal, the cores tore free. 

With the same rudeness that had greeted the end of every fight he’d been in, everything went quiet. The looming sentry bot shuddered and died, its very heart ripped from it, but without the explosion that would’ve probably entombed them all. He could hear nothing but the pounding of his own blood in his ears and the breath coming hoarse and heavy from his lungs. Dropping the still glowing fusion cores, he looked down at the mechanical hands of his armor frame. It was bad, but it was fixable. 

“Well slap my ass and call me a brahmin if I saw the like before.” Shaw said, eyes wide as she walked out from cover. “You got a pair of stones on you, General, and no mistake.” 

“What she said.” Cait added, following on behind her. “You’re one a mad bastard, Frost, pulling shite like that..”

“At least now we can fix him up.” Richard said, a smile of relief creasing his features beneath his helmet’s steel mask. “Get his programming working again and he’ll be a real asset.” 

“No argument there, General.” Shaw nodded. “But he’s not what we came for. Let’s get going.”

Retrieving his laser rifle from where he’d dropped it, Richard nodded back, making his way back to the head of the column beside Shaw as they made their way further down what little remained of the tunnel system. What they found at its end was quite a sight. Slumped beside the desk upon which sat a terminal to open the security gate at the tunnel’s exit was a desiccated corpse, surrounded by bottle after empty bottle of wine and more than a few full boxes of unopened ones. 

He was wearing just a shirt and pants, his feet bare. The rest of his clothes were nearby, hanging just a little ways towards the gate on a spike driven into the brickwork: a blue frock coat with four golden stars sewn into its collar and tricorn hat, whilst a pair of tall black boots, a set of black leather gloves, and a black combat chestplate decorated with the symbol of the Minutemen lay of the ground beneath them.

Stooping to pick one of the bottles up, Richard’s eyebrows rose in surprise as he realised it was Amontillado, expensive stuff. More sherry than a wine, really, if he remembered it right. The man had drunk quite the fancy last meal. 

“That explains all the landmines.” Shaw put in, sadly. “This is, well...  _ was _ , General McGann. He had your job back when I first joined up. Must have gotten trapped down here when that sea beast attacked the Castle.” 

“With only  _ this _ to keep him going.” Cait said, picking up a bottle herself before shrugging. “Worse ways to go than piss-drunk, I ‘spose.” 

“He wasn’t the best of men, but he did manage to keep the armory secure. I'll give him that much.” when Shaw spoke again her voice was quieter than he’d heard so far, somber and almost wistful. “Rest in peace, General. Your fight is done and the Minutemen live on.” Shaking herself, she looked away from the corpse and Rick met her gaze as she continued, voice strong again. “He ain’t what we came for either, let's get this thing done.”

* * *

Hours later, Richard walked back into what were technically now  _ his  _ quarters in the Castle’s layout, Preston at his side. It’d been a long day. Upon getting into the armory he’d been amazed to find everything still in pretty much perfect order, from laser muskets to turrets to heavier ordinance like missile launchers and even a Fat Man. With an arsenal like that, it amazed him the Castle had ever fallen. But the biggest surprise and greatest boon had been what Ronnie had broken open in the tunnel just past the security gate guarded by both SARGE and General McGann’s body. 

Crate after crate of disassembled mortars and the shells to be fired from them.

With those things at their disposal and the schematics to make more, given materials and a forge, everything had changed. The Minutemen could be more than a simple militia, they were an  _ army _ , with the ability to rain fire on Super Mutants, raiders, and whatever else at a moment’s notice. Getting them out of storage and setting four of them up in the empty gun emplacements on the Castle’s walls had been the top priority for most of the day. But they’d done it. With sweat, grit, and determination they’d done it. 

The new guns had been christened by the men, with a little assistance from Piper. Now the walls of the Castle were defended by Liberty, Independence, Freedom, and Survival. Bit more dignified than what the artillery boys back in the waybackwhen had called their guns. He smiled dimly as he remembered the likes of “Commie-Crusher”, “Whoopass Bringer”, and “Chairman Cheng’s Enema” daubed on the barrels of the field guns overlooking Anchorage. 

The second order of business, only concluded now, was the burial of General McGann. Along with SARGE, who awaited repair in the courtyard above, the General’s body had been brought up from the tunnels. As he’d discussed the places where some of the new guns could be sent with Shaw and Preston, General McGann’s body had been cleaned and wrapped in a shroud made out of one of the Minutemen flags. Then, with everyone in attendance and to a valedictory test volley from the guns atop the walls, he’d been laid to rest in the earth outside the Castle. 

“A long day.” Richard pronounced tiredly as he rubbed at his eyes. 

“Yes sir.” his friend answered from behind him, fatigue heavy in his voice. “The men are feeling it.”

“And me as well.” he continued, shaking his head as he walked towards the desk set at the room’s centre. Along with both General McGann and SARGE, he’d ordered the crates of Amontillado brought up from the cellars and divided out amongst the men, with only two to be put aside in his quarters. “Drink?”

“Sure.” Preston shrugged. “Lord knows, we both need one.”

Richard smiled over his shoulder, but the expression faded from his face. The wine and a set of metal cups weren’t the only thing on the desk. Alongside them were General McGann’s coat, his hat, boots and gloves, and his black armored chestplate. There was also a white dress shirt and a black neckerchief, along with a pair of thick black woolen pants. From their cleanliness, those last items couldn’t have been taken from McGann’s corpse at least.

Very slowly, eyes fixed on the articles, Rick nevertheless plucked a bottle from one of the crates and poured out a heavy measure of the wine into two of the cups. 

Turning, he passed one to Preston, his brows knitted together in confusion. “Explain?” As he listened to the answer, he took a long drink of the Amontillado, though his focus on the appearance of McGann’s effects stopped him from appreciating the rich, almost oaky, wine.

“The men you sent down to bring up General McGann’s body brought them up, sir.” Garvey explained, pausing only to take a sip of his own drink. “They asked me what wanted doing with them when you and Shaw were busy overseeing the deployment of the laser turrets on the northern wall.” 

“And you didn’t think to have them buried with McGann?” Richard asked. He wasn’t  _ angry _ per se, but there was something about this he disliked. They  _ should  _ have been buried with his predecessor. 

“With respect, no, General.” Preston answered, shaking his head slightly. “They’re the uniform of the General of the Minutemen; we found the shirt, neckerchief, and pants in these quarters. McGann isn’t the General anymore, sir.  _ You  _ are. And so they’re yours, if you want them.” 

Turning back to the desk, Rick stared down at the uniform laid out in front of him. He barely heard Preston down his drink and set the cup down, saying he’d be outside if he needed anything, barely perceived the closing of the door. It was ridiculous. He couldn’t go walking around the wastes dressed in an 18th century frock coat and hat. And yet-

_ The cold bite of the air in his lungs, the smell of distant burning on the air. Anchorage was retaken, but it wasn’t rebuilt. Parts of it still smoldered. And yet they wanted  _ **_this_ ** _. Wanted him to swan in front of the cameras as he was awarded a medal by General Chase and thanked by Anchorage’s hastily appointed mayor.  _

_ “You told me there wasn’t going to be any press.” he grumbled, voice unmuffled by his helmet’s voxcaster because he’d been told to leave the thing behind. The armor was good, but they wanted to see his face. _

_ “The folks back home need heroes, Sergeant.” Captain Abrams sent an understanding, if wry, look his way. “They need symbols. Gives them hope.”  _

_ “Does it matter I don’t think I am one?” he asked, keeping his eyes locked on where the General, fresh from decorating a Marine Gunnery Sergeant, was waiting for them.  _

_ “Not one bit, Sergeant.” Captain Abrams grinned back, hiding it as a bit for the cameras. “What’s the old saying? ‘Act as if ye have faith and faith shall be given to you.’ Put plain-” _

_ “Fake it ‘til you make it.” he finished, the smile on his own face finally not feigned.  _

_ “Though I don’t think you need to fake much, Frost.” Coming to a halt, they both drew to attention as they waited for the General’s nod, Captain Abrams in his freshly-provided dress uniform and he in a suit of T-51 power armor he’d never even worn before. The rig he’d used during the fight was too banged up for the cameras, apparently. Under his breath, the captain added. “You earned this.” _

The memory receding, Richard eyes refocused on the uniform that had been laid out on his desk. Long silent moments dragged out. Then, draining first his cup and then the bottle of the rich, dry, oaky wine, and putting it aside, he stood tall and squared his shoulders. 

He was out of both his Pip-boy and the fatigues he’d bought at Fallon’s weeks ago quick enough. Just as quick he pulled on the dark woolen trousers, slid his feet into the tall boots. At their weight and the thickness of the leather it was clear there was an armor plate sewn into the boots, at least at the front of each. The thick cotton shirt was musty, but it was clean and he pulled it on, buttoning it up and tying the black neckerchief around the collar. The heavy combat chestplate at least was more familiar and he buckled it on, feeling its almost comforting weight. His hand stilled for but a moment above the dark blue frock coat with its golden stars. But then it curled around its collar and picked it up. It was heavy, solid. A symbol through and through.

Putting it on, he slid his hands into the gloves. They fit well and from the feel their knuckles had been reinforced. That could come in handy. Adjusting the fit only slightly, he was able to clip his Pip-boy back on over the lefthand one. With a sigh, he nodded. He was dressed in not just  _ a  _ uniform now, but  _ his _ . The hat could stay where it was, though. Symbol or not, no force on heaven or on earth would have him wearing  _ that. _

Turning around, he walked to the doors, getting a feel for the new boots as he did so. Thank God their previous owner and he had shared a size. Pushing them open, he found - as expected - that Preston hadn’t left. 

“Preston?” he said, looking to the man who was both his friend, his second-in-command, and seemingly his greatest supporter.

“Yes-” the question tailed off as he stepped through the doorway, letting it swing shut behind him. His friend spent a moment taking in the sight before him, before at last their eyes met. When he finished his question, there was fresh emphasis to the word. “ _ General _ ?”

Smiling at the man who had trusted him thus far, Richard nodded. Somehow, he felt the truth of what was in his chest. Just two simple words. The only two words that would ever matter.

“I’m ready.”

* * *

Outside, the Castle’s garrison and the others were milling about in the central yard, some talking, some passing around drinks and sitting at tables somebody in the small eating area in front of the mess tent. Same as soldiers with nothing to do had done for centuries. Since the beginning of history, to tell the truth. But then one group noticed him, shooting to their feet as they did so, eyes locked onto the uniform he was wearing now. Then another group did, and another, and another. Eventually, every eye in the courtyard was locked on him. 

He knew he had to say something to these men and women. Something to end the day on a better note than the burial of the last man to wear this uniform. And whether it was the Amontillado in his belly or something else, he knew what it was.

Jogging forward, he climbed up the as-yet uncleared rubble scree caused by the hole in the southern wall, just a few paces, before turning to look down at the men and women filling the courtyard. When he spoke, he dropped his voice into the same tone and volume that he’d once used to yell across parade grounds or the field of battle. It carried more than well enough.

“Minutemen!” he called and they came, assembling in front of him. At the looks upon their faces and the lights in their eyes, he had to smile fondly as he repeated the word. “Minutemen. When I walked out of my Vault, it was into a world that should have broken me. A world that was born from the ashes of the world I knew, a world I fought and bled to defend. A world I saw brothers and sisters  _ die _ for.” he shrugged his shoulders, shaking his head as he briefly remembered the all-encompassing despair that he’d felt that first night. 

“I should’ve lost hope. I should’ve laid down, in the dirt, and ended it, the barrel of a gun to my temple. But I didn’t. Because I saw  _ this  _ man” He thrust out a hand to where Preston stood at the front of the crowd of men and women stood in front of him. “Fighting to defend others, for no other reason than it was the RIGHT. THING. TO DO. Because of HIM, I saw something. A heart still beating. With idealism. With  _ HOPE _ . 

Hundreds of years ago, men stood in this city and declared to the whole world a simple thing. A simple statement. A simple  _ truth _ . ‘Give me Liberty or  _ give me death. _ ’. And I see that same fire in  _ you _ , my brothers and sisters. I see the same hearts still beating. With the blood of  _ revolutionaries _ . With the blood of men and women who long ago stood up to the monarchs and kings of the world and said  _ no more _ . 

The enemies might’ve changed, kings and their armies might’ve become the Institute and their synths, the Super Mutants or the raiders, but the hearts have not changed. The blood that runs through your veins _ has not changed _ . And if you want to, my brothers and sisters, we  _ shall  _ change the world as our forefathers did. In the name of the simplest truth of all: “Give me Liberty, or give me death.” Liberty from fear, liberty from hate, liberty from the evil that came before us, and liberty from those who would enslave us now.

Will you hold to that truth? Will you stand with me? You in whose hearts beats the blood of the men and women who forged this country once before and can do so again? 

WILL YOU?!”

For one of the longest moments of his life, silence held. In that silence he expected to be told to go to hell, to be thrown aside and laughed at. In truth, he didn’t know where half of that had come from. He’d simply started talking and the words had come. He wasn’t even sure if they’d sounded good.

It started slowly. From the very back of the crowd. But then it spread, from mouth to mouth, voice to voice, heart to heart, rushing forward as a great wave. The answer. The  **declaration** .

**_“YYYYEEESSSS!”_ **

“Then here we stand my _fellow AMERICANS!”_ he called out, voice rising to crescendo **.** “Here we stand. Here we **_fight_**. Against any and all who would confront us. Here we declare to the world: give us and the Commonwealth _liberty_ , from oppression and from hate, or give us _death!_ ”

As he thrust a clenched fist to the sky, the Minutemen stood before him  _ roared. _

Smiling, a rush like no other coursing through him, Richard looked out over the crowd, meeting eyes and sharing grins. Preston looked happier than he’d ever seen him, face split open in a broad smile as he began to applaud. Ronnie Shaw had a wryer smile on her lips and as they locked eyes she nodded in tacit approval. Codsworth actually saluted. Piper was already scribbling in her notepad. His eyes found Cait’s as she leant against one of the radio shack’s walls, finding a look of amused disbelief on her face before - very and deliberately slowly - she clapped her hands once, twice, three times, before heading off to claim a bottle that’d been left unattended on a table.

Descending the rubble scree, he was quickly enveloped by his men, exchanging backslaps and handshakes. He hadn’t been making it up: he could see now the  _ hope  _ in their eyes and in their hearts, their desire to stand up and make the Commonwealth a better place. Getting through the crush, leaving them to disperse to talk amongst themselves and celebrate a hard day’s work completed, he made his way to where Cait was sitting with her feet up on a table. As he did so, he noticed Jefferson messing with something in the radio shack, but ignored it. 

“This taken? He said, pulling out a chair from the table opposite her. 

“It’s a free country, apparently.” she smirked across at him, over her boots. Taking a heavy swig of the whiskey she’d purloined, she offered it across to him. “You’re an odd one, Frost.” 

“Oh?” he asked, taking it and taking a swig of his own. 

Putting her feet down, Cait leant forward in her chair, green eyes locking onto his. “Any other person had walked out, wearing that getup,” she pointed at the blue frock coat. “And talking like you just did there, I’d have been on arse on the ground, pissing myself laughing. But you...somehow…” she snorted then, shook her head. “Somehow you made it bloody  _ work _ .” 

Richard chuckled, before raising the bottle in his hand. “To the odd ones, then.” Taking a swig, he handed it back over. 

Taking it, Cait half-smiled again before holding it up. “To the bloody odd ones.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And another facet of Rick's post-War identity slips into place. Hope you all enjoyed!


	10. First Impressions (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next batch of the Fallout 4 crew meet Richard Frost for the very first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a relatively quick one this time guys, for which I'll make up for later. But it's an important one nonetheless, seeing as we're introducing some more of the Commonwealth's finest to our dear Richard.

**_Hancock_ **

He took a hit from the inhaler and smiled, feeling the familiar rush and then the smooth buzz of the Jet taking its effect. This was good shit. Literally. Whatever brahmin crap had been used to make this batch had been top-notch stuff. Allen’d done him right this time. Closing his eyes, Hancock smiled and just let himself  _ be. _ It was times like this that the fact he was standing against a battered old building in the middle of a ruined city with a face like a shriveled walnut just...didn’t...matter. 

The sound of the front gate opening up and a nudge from Farenheit made one of his eyes creep open. Nobody he knew was due in today, so that probably meant somebody new. Now with both eyes, he lazily scanned the area. Tony and Jake were standing by, submachine guns ready but not levelled. That was good, no first impression could be considered good if it started with gun barrels in your face. And what was there in this fucked up life if not the importance of good first impressions.

Besides, if these assholes wanted trouble, KLE-0 would just tear them a new one. 

First through the gate was a surprise, but not an unwelcome one. Nick Valentine might have a stick up his mettalic butt when it came to life’s little vices, but he was good people. Following him in was another familiar face. He’d never given Wright an interview - mainly because she’d never asked - but if what he heard about the trouble she was whipping up for Bobby was true, then she was alright by him. After that the familiar faces stopped coming, but each through the gate got more interesting than the last. 

First there was the redhead. Something about her tripped something in the ol’ brainbox but the Jet was keeping it fuzzy. Either way, with her leather jacket, baseball bat and ‘piss off, asshole’ expression it seemed like she’d be right at home with the great and the good of Goodneighbor. After that came the best lookin’ dog he’d seen in his life, all bright eyes and sharp white teeth. And then came the Mr Handy, managing to somehow look completely different from Charlie despite the fact they were identical. And then-

_ Holy shit. _

It wasn’t any old day that a guy wearing a full rig of black power armor walked through the front gate. 

Just as he was about to push himself off the wall and make the usual “Of the People, For the People” speech for the benefit of the newcomers, Finn crawled out of nowhere and put himself in front of them. Valentine’s putdown to his attempt at tough-guy blather made him smile, but it got wiped away as he then tried to pull his ‘insurance’ bullshit. How many times had he told the bald asshole not to pull that shit? And somehow the fact he was outnumbered six to one and one of the six was a walking tank had skipped his mind. 

In answer to some of the most cliche threatening he’d ever had the misfortune to hear, the guy in the power armor took one heavy step forward, taking off his helmet to reveal a face that he mighta called good looking if not for the scowl. Hell, even with the scowl, you had to give credit where it was due. Scars or no scars, scowl or no scowl, this one’d have the guys and girls at the Rexford fighting to be the one to polish his pole. 

“You better back off, pal.” he grimaced, his free hand curling into an armored fist. “It’s been a long day and I’m not in the mood to deal with a two-bit thug. Especially not one who can’t see he’s woefully outgunned.”

If he’d still had a proper nose to smell, Hancock was sure he’d have smelt Finn’s pants get just that little bit fuller. 

“Whoa, hey, all right.” Finn stammered, as the redhead - fresh from a quick grin up at the black armored newcomer - swung her bat into the palm of her free hand for good measure. “We'll just, uh, say your insurance is paid up for now, okay?” 

That did it. It was just something about that fuckin’ word that set him off, despite the Jet’s efforts to cool him down. Before Farenheit could stop him, he was off the wall and walking forward, all eyes snapping to him just as he liked it, his knife already palmed from its sheath and waiting for an excuse. 

“Whoa whoa whoa, time out.” he said, keeping his hands up, his smile wide, and his tone bordering on icy. “Nick Valentine makes a rare visit to town, and you're hassling his friends here with that extortion crap?” He made a quick pause to greet the detective and got a response that actually got close to cordial. 

“What d’you care?” Finn bristled, shit-for-brains that he was. “They ain’t us.”

“No love for your Mayor, Finn?” both his smile and his words turned as sharp as the blade hidden up his sleeve. “I said cut it with this crap. Now run along and let these folks go about their business.”

“You're soft, Hancock.” Finn spat back, signing his death warrant. “You keep letting outsiders walk all over us, one day there'll be a new mayor.”

“Come on, man, this is  _ me _ we’re talking about.” he said, walking forward. In a flash the knife was in his hand and then it was in Finn’s guts, before he withdrew it and plunged it in again. This time he hit heart. And he twisted the blade for good measure. As the lights started to leave the idiot’s eyes, he just stared down at him, shaking his head. “Now why'd you have to go and say that, huh? Breaking my heart over here.”

Putting his knife back in its proper place, he turned to the arrivals. None of them had so much as blinked. Looking up at the big guy in black, he shrugged. “Now I know you had ole' Finn handled back there, but a mayor's gotta make a point sometimes. You all right, brother?”

“I’m fine.” the newcomer said, with a small nod. “Anybody gonna miss him?”

“Him? Nah.” he answered, giving the corpse at his feet a nudge. “Total asshole. Only time we’ll miss him is if the muties come to play. Now don't let this incident taint your view of our little community. Goodneighbor's of the people, for the people, you feel me?  _ Everyone's  _ welcome.”

After half a second, the newcomer’s face changed, a proper smile curling up the corners of his mouth. “Yeah, I feel you.”

Hancock matched the smile. “Good. You stay cool, and you'll be part of the neighborhood. So long as you remember who's in charge.” He nodded down at Finn’s rapidly cooling body just to make the point.

The smile on the newcomer’s face became a smirk. “Not much chance of forgetting that.”

“Well then, enjoy the best little town the Commonwealth has to offer!” he said, sweeping an arm expansively, before watching as - with a nod here and there just to be friendly - the strange new group filed past him and into town. He caught the redhead’s eye and smiled a smile he knew worked, but the only thing he got in reply was a grin of a fellow killer appreciating good work done well. Ah well, couldn’t win ‘em all. Keeping his eyes on the guy in black armor, who was now at the front of his little band of misfits, he felt rather than saw Farenheit walk up behind him.

“I’m guessin’ that’s the new partner Valentine was talking about when he took on that gallery gig, huh?” he asked over his shoulder. 

“Guess so.” his bodyguard answered. 

“Know anything about him?” the question was lightly asked, but seriously meant. 

“Nothing.” Fahrenheit shrugged.

“Well see what you can find out.” Hancock ordered, before heading for his digs in the Old State House. Just owning a suit of power armor made a guy interesting, so long as he wasn’t one of those Brotherhood tools that had shown up. But there was something else, something in the way the guy carried himself, something he’d seen looking into his eyes during their little pow-wow. 

Something that made him  _ very _ interesting. 

* * *

**_MacCready_ **

MacCready scowled into his beer bottle, letting the anger and annoyance at Winlock and Barnes stew in his brain. To hell with them. To hell with the Gunners. To hell with the whole dang Commonwealth. He was one of - if not  _ the _ \- best shots alive and here he was, stuck in a bar and drinking himself to death. All because nobody would take him on for fear of pissing off the Gunners. He was down to his last twenty caps. At this rate, he’d be out on his ear within the week. 

A pair of boots entered his eyeline and he sighed angrily. ”Look, pal. If you're preaching about the Atom, or looking for a friend, you've got the wrong guy. If you need a hired gun-”

“I do. And I hear you’re one of the best.” a voice, strong and calm and collected, cut in. 

Looking up, MacCready kept his face still, when in actual fact he wanted to raise his eyebrows so high they started making out with his hairline. The guy stood in front of him was tall, well built, with a face that told him he wasn’t no damsel who’d never been in a fight and needed a bodyguard. But more importantly, he was dressed in an old-timey blue frock coat just like Hancock's. 

_ “Aw hell, there’s  _ **_two_ ** _ of them.”  _

“You heard right, I’ve been at this since I was a kid.” he drained what was left of his beer. “I used to run with the  _ Gunners _ for crying out loud, before I left the psycho bas-” biting the word off, he gritted his teeth. “Before I left  _ them _ .”

“That what that was about?” bluecoat asked, tilting his head towards the door Winlock and Barnes had just walked out of. 

“Pretty much. They’re wound up tight, the Gunners. Almost like a cult or something. They don’t appreciate people cutting loose and flying solo.” leaning back in his chair, MacCready took a closer look at the man opposite him, taking in the 10mm hanging from a shoulder holster inside his coat and the Ripper hanging off his belt. “Don’t worry about ‘em, though. Winlock and Barnes couldn’t kill a rabbit with a rocket launcher.”

“Gunners aren’t any friends of mine anyway.” the guy answered with a shrug and MacCready realised where he’d seen the symbol painted on his black chestplate before. He was one of the Minutemen. “A little more trouble isn’t going to make a difference.” 

“A man after my own heart.” MacCready’s grin was genuine, if short-lived. “But what about you, huh? I know what that symbol on your chest means, but how do I know I’m not gonna end up with a bullet in my back?”

The guy crossed his arms, looking seriously down at him. “All I can offer is my word. And caps, of course.”

Looking into the guy’s blue-green eyes, MacCready saw the honesty there. It was rare but refreshing to see. He nodded. “Good enough for me. The price is 250 caps, up front and there’s no room for bargaining.”

“Deal.” the man agreed, bluntly. His hand went to the satchel at his side and came back out with a small bag of caps, which he dropped onto the table. It was joined by four others. “250 caps, as requested.”

Opening one of them at random, MacCready grinned again at the sight of food and drink for the foreseeable future glinting back at him. Along with his little plan to get Winlock and Barnes off his back. Drawing the bag closed, he scooped in and three of the others into his pack, lying at his side. The last went into one of his duster’s pockets. A little spending money always came in handy. 

Standing up, he stuck out a hand to his new employer. “R.J MacCready, at your service.” 

“General Richard Frost, Commonwealth Minutemen, at yours.” the man answered, taking his hand. He had a strong handshake, had to give it to him. “We’re staying in town for the night, but you want to come meet the rest of the group?”

Raising an eyebrow in curiosity, MacCready swept up first his pack and then his rifle. “Lead on,  _ General _ .” 

Following the Minuteman out of the back room, MacCready found himself assaulted by the wall of noise that was the Third Rail on a busy night. They threaded their way through crowded tables until they reached a couple of sofas in one of the corners, both of which were occupied with the people he’d evidently just signed up with. Valentine was a surprise, but apart from that he didn’t know the other two women. From the press cap he guessed the dark-haired one - who was currently staring somewhat open-mouthed at Magnolia as she sang her songs - was the one who wrote that Publick Occurrences rag. The redhead had all the usual ‘do not fuck with’ signs about her, right down to the way she was looking decidedly into her glass of whiskey. 

“Piper, Cait, Nick,” Frost said, drawing their attention as he sat down. “This is MacCready, he’s agreed to work with us.” 

MacCready answered the little greeting he got with a nod, before turning to Frost. “What is the job anyway? We doing some salvage, taking someone or something out, what?” 

“Some salvage first, among other things.” Frost answered, looking up at him. “After that we’re heading into The Glowing Sea, to find a man who can hopefully get me inside the Institute.” 

As he finally did let his eyebrows shoot upwards, MacCready got the distinctly unpleasant feeling that he should’ve asked for more caps.


	11. A Night in Goodneighbor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, sorry for the delay. Life got in the way, as it has a habit of doing, though it was in a good way at least. Being busy nowadays is actually kinda refreshing. Anyway, hope you all enjoy this and just to give fair warning there's a few little headcanon tweaks here and there regarding the town in question.

Rick had learned more than a few things since he’d walked out of the Vault. Among them was that just because someone behind a bar  _ called  _ something ‘whiskey’, that didn’t mean it actually  _ was _ . Often it was rotgut coloured somehow to look like it. He was pretty sure one bottle he’d had before had genuinely been coloured with rust. But thankfully, here at the Third Rail, they served the real deal. It slid down smooth, though leaving a warm trail in its wake. And by God did he need it right now. 

After all, he’d spent the afternoon in the mind of the man who’d killed his wife. 

Even if he’d been asleep for two centuries in cryogenic stasis, when Nick had grabbed him in Diamond City to tell him the plan he’d come up with to get information on the Institute, he’d been skeptical. It had sounded a complete fantasy. Using a dead man’s brainmatter to access his memories? It was like something out of the Astoundingly Awesome Tales series. But Nick had been adamant that it could work and so off they’d gone, back to Fort Hagen. Back to where he’d run out of leads. Back to where his search had ended. Back to where he’d taken what little vengeance he could for the wreckage of his life.

Kellogg, what was left of him, had been lying just where they’d left him that day, his skull reduced to flecks of bone that had once been wet but had dried out and turned tacky by the time they returned. Finding any bit of brain that he hadn’t turned to paste in his anger had looked like a futile endeavour and he’d once again started feeling that hollow, inside-scooped-out feeling he’d first felt after killing the bastard originally, though somehow the small bit of hope Nick’s idea had put in his head made it worse. 

And then they’d found it.

Rick had seen brainmatter and viscera and whatever else you cared to mention before. Everything that was inside someone that you’re not supposed to see, he’d seen over the course of first nine years in the Army and then the...month or so?...he’d been in the Commonwealth Wasteland. And yet it had been disconcerting when Nick had - with a yell of triumph - held up a piece of brainmatter he’d found. It had been riven through with all sorts of wires and ports and - most disgustingly of all - had still been  _ pulsing _ . Just faintly, but unmistakably. 

With their grisly trophy in hand, they’d brought it here, to Goodneighbor. And with Nick’s help and the help of Dr Amari in the so-called ‘Memory Den’, a place he’d never heard about but which let you relive old memories as if you were there, they’d cracked their way into Kellogg’s memories and found the answers they needed. Now he knew how the Institute transported their agents and their synths across the Commonwealth: teleportation. It didn’t seem real, but he’d seen it with his own eyes. And he knew his next move. There was a defector from the Institute hiding in the Glowing Sea. That was his way in. 

He tossed back another glass of whiskey, feeling the burn slide its way down his throat mutedly after so much of the stuff. The Glowing Sea wasn’t why he was drinking. To be sure, it wasn’t going to be easy. He’d seen the ghostly lights emanating from it on the far horizon on many nights. He’d hidden from the radstorms it sent crackling across the Commonwealth. It was going to take time to gather the materials the others would need to survive in what, according to the stories, was the closest version to hell the Commonwealth had. But that wasn’t it.

He’d seen Shaun in those memories. 

His son. His baby boy, already grown up so much. He hadn’t wanted to believe it when all the evidence had pointed to him having woken up later than he thought, but then he’d seen him. He had Nora’s eyes, the exact same blue eyes. Proper, true blue, not his blue green. He’d wanted to hug him, but he couldn't. All he could do was watch as the Institute took him away again in their teleporter. And before that he’d seen the life of the man who’d taken him the first time. The life of the man he’d killed. 

He’d seen him as a child and as a new father and as a broken man who’d lost his wife and child. And now he hated him all the  _ more _ . He’d  _ known _ the pain of loss and grief. He’d  _ known  _ what it was to lose those you loved the most. And all he’d done was bring that pain to others, time and time again. His hands had been awash with blood, dripping with the stuff, more stained than his own had been when he’d finished shattering his skull in the control room of Fort Hagen. Even if the almost animalistic fury he’d shown that day troubled him in quiet moments, he was now more sure than ever that bastard had needed to die. 

He shook the thoughts away, focussing on the next glass of whiskey. Most of the bottle he’d bought was gone, just like the beers he’d shared with the others before it. It was times like this he cursed his tolerance for booze. Oh he was  _ drunk _ , to be sure. But he wasn’t in the blissful oblivion most people’d be in after maybe half of what he’d had tonight. Damn Pierce and that rotgut he’d made in his still up outside Anchorage. There was nothing and nobody else to blame for turning a young kid who’d barely had so much as a bottle of beer or a cup of communion wine when he’d joined up at eighteen and turned him into a man who could put away entire bottles of spirit and not die.

Sending the whiskey the same way as he’d sent its predecessors, he spun on his bar stool and looked out at the rest of The Third Rail. A bar built into and on a subway station, who’d have ever thought it? Building a town in the middle of Fenway, or a cage-fighting ring out of a theatre, or a bar down in an old subway station, he had to give it to them, these people of the future. They certainly were inventive. It actually made him smile a little. 

Looking around the room, he saw it was nearly empty. MacCready was still here, but as far as he could tell, he pretty much lived here anyway. He’d seen Piper talking with Magnolia earlier, during one of the songstress’ breaks, but he couldn’t see a trace of her now. Magnolia herself was gone too, come to think of it, her backing band playing on alone. Codsworth and Dogmeat were - far as he knew - back at The Memory Den with his rig, looking after it until he was in a fit state to get back into it. That left only Nick and Cait. His synthetic friend was doubtless tracking down a new lead on fresh trouble, whilst Cait? She was probably doing the same thing, come to think of it. 

A tap from a metallic claw on his shoulder made him turn back to the bar, into the unwavering eyestalk of Whitechapel Charlie.

“Closing time, mate.” the robot said, his accent rougher than Codsworth but still unmistakably British.

Rick blinked. “You have a closing time? Surely a guy like you could work the bar all day and all night.” His mind flitted to Diamond City and the robot who tended Myrna’s salvage shop when she was asleep. 

“Aye, I could alright.” Charlie acknowledged, before his modulated voice hardened. “But the band’s only mortal and so’s Ham, even if he is a ghoul. And I need to clean up after you lot besides. So time to clear out.”

“Fair enough.” Rick shrugged. It made sense. Draining the last of the whiskey in both his glass and bottle, he fumbled for one of the bags of pre-counted caps he had in his satchel and held it up. “Half for the road?”

“Your funeral in the morning, mate.” Charlie answered, snatching up the bag and quickly replacing it with a short bottle of what he hoped was the same stuff he’d already been drinking. “One halfer.”

Taking it with thanks, Rick slid it into his satchel and then slid  _ off  _ the stool. He swayed as his boots hit the floor, but caught himself easily enough. Pierce had a lot to answer for. More out of curiosity than a desire for certainty, he patted himself down. Satchel at his waist, Pip-Boy clipped over his left glove, 10mm slung under his arm, and knife at his belt. After a moment of confusion he remembered he’d left his ripper hanging on one of his T-51’s magnetised leg panels and the rest of his weapons in the duffel beside it. That meant everything was all there, which was all to the good. With that, he made his way to the exit, waving a distracted farewell to an almost-dozing MacCready and getting a grunt of farewell from the doorman.

The night air was a knife to his lungs. But despite its bite, it couldn’t penetrate the warm glow the whiskey had wrapped him in. With a smile that on someone else he’d have probably found a bit insufferable, he set off down the street at an ambling stroll, rather than his usual purposeful stride. His destination was the Hotel Rexford, a place he’d never have dreamt of staying in before The War, but which was now his only place to lay his head beyond a bench in the street. He didn’t need to worry about staggering this way and that, long years in the army had given him the ability to almost set them on autopilot, leaving them to just keep going straight ahead no matter how tired, cold, or indeed drunk he was. 

Looking skywards, he saw a sight that - whilst it had grown familiar - was nonetheless still breathtaking in its beauty, despite the fact he was viewing it from the middle of a ruined street in bombed-out Boston. Glinting in the blackness, a field of stars shone down at him, far more than he’d ever seen growing up, when there was always smoke from the factories in Lexington and the Ironworks or simple light pollution obscuring them. He’d only seen stars like he saw tonight when he’d been deployed to Alaska. His smile broadened a little and, fishing in his satchel, he took out the half-bottle and cracked it open, before raising a toast to the beauty of the sky. 

“The General of the Minutemen!” a familiar, scratchy voice called out and he turned, mid-swig, to find Mayor Hancock standing a half dozen paces away down the street. His desiccated features were split in a broad grin as he swept the tricorne from his head and bowed theatrically, leaving only a few straggling strands of blonde hair atop his scalp. 

Joining his comrade in colonial dress’ fun whilst not quite putting together that he’d not actually told the ghoul his rank or affiliation, Rick lowered his bottle before mirroring the gesture despite his lack of a hat. “The Mayor of Goodneighbor!”

Their laughter mixing, both men straightened up and - at the Mayor’s silent invitation - both sat down on one of the benches set against a wall opposite the State House’s balcony. As they did, Hancock took an inhaler out from his coat and took a hit from it. His satisfied exhale turned to a plume of mist in the cold air.

“Now that’s good Jet.” he grinned up at the night sky, before proffering the little red inhaler. “Fancy a puff?” 

Rick should his head. Never had, never would. “I’m good, thanks.”

“Not feeling it, or you don’t partake?” the ghoul asked, black eyes sliding to him. 

“The second.” Rick answered, taking another swig of the whiskey in his half-bottle, before mirroring Hancock’s gesture. “Want a belt?” 

“Nah, you keep it.” Hancock’s smile was seemingly genuine. “So how you like this town of mine?”

Chuckling, Rick looked around. Looked at the piled up rubbish, the people sleeping rough in scanty shelters by the roadside. At the buzzing neon of the Rexford and the Memory Den. At the ‘Neighborhood Watch’ with their three-piece suits and submachine guns. At the men and women not ‘lucky’ enough to work in the Rexford, who instead were forced by circumstance to rent themselves out on street corners for a bag of caps or a hit of whatever drugs they wanted. At the downtrodden and discarded, given - if not a place to live in peace and prosperity - at least a place to live. 

“Would you believe me if I said I liked it?” he grinned, looking back to the frockcoated Mayor of All He Surveyed.

“I would.” Hancock nodded, graciously, before adding with genuine pride. “Best little place in the Commonwealth where folks can truly live free.” 

“I’ll drink to that.” Rick said. And so he did, the amber liquid slipping down smoother than any that had preceded it. He lowered the bottle to find Hancock looking at him with a raised, if hairless, brow.

“So,” he said, slipping his Jet back into his coat. “You really from back before the war? Heard one of your crew told ol’ Daisy the tale and some of my guys say that paper’s talking about you walkin’ out of some cryo-vault.” 

Closing his eyes for a moment to rally his answer, Rick took the opportunity to covertly roll his eyes. Once again that interview he’d given Piper was getting him questions he was starting to feel a little tired of answering over and over. “It’s all true, every word. I was born two hundred an-” his mind faltered for the right math. “Two hundred and thirty seven years ago, back in good ol’ 2050.”

“Holy shit.” Hancock grinned, black eyes alight with more than drug-haze. “You’re either the best bullshitter I’ve ever heard or you’re really telling the truth and I know bullshit. So what was it like this place like back then?” He swept an arm to encompass his constituency. 

Rick had to think and more than because the whiskey’s delightful fug was starting to creep into the corners of his mind. He’d not really  _ known _ Scollay Square, growing up in North Roxbury. Heard about it in either the Silver Shroud shows or from some of the older boys growing up, who heard it from other older boys until you could never actually track down the one who’d visited it. But between those stories, probably equally fictitious, and what he’d read in the papers and the few times he’d walked through the place on the way somewhere else…? 

“Much the same.” he concluded. “If a tad cleaner. And with the ‘services’ a bit more...out of sight.” 

There was a harsh, grating rasp of sound that it took half a second for Rick to realise was Hancock laughing. “Well I’ll take it! Guess we’re keepin’ up the old traditions!”

Chuckling himself, Rick pushed himself to his feet. “Well I better be going, need to get some shuteye before we head out tomorrow.” Turning to face the ghoul who’d also gotten to his feet, he held out a hand. “Been nice meetin’ you, Mayor Hancock.” 

“Likewise,” Hancock said, taking his hand in a firm grip. His nuclear-blasted flesh was strange to the touch, but he was too far gone to care at this point. “ _ General _ . You’re welcome back to my town  _ anytime _ .” 

And with that they broke the shake and walked away in different directions, Hancock to the State House that was his private domain and Rick to where a rented bed awaited him in the Hotel Rexford. He hoped the others, wherever they were, were having or had had a good night. 

* * *

Cait’s hands shot out and gripped the metal bedframe, satisfaction tearing itself free of her chest in a low moan. Fuck but she’d needed this, ever since that time in the Dugout. She’d needed a way to blow off steam with no attachment and the Hotel Rexford’s collection of whores had provided. The man beneath her wasn’t bad to look at - dirty blonde hair, blue eyes, not out of shape - but she really didn’t care about that. She’d only needed one thing from him and with those last few thrusts he provided, all for the price of a good meal. Gotta love Goodneighbor. For a long moment she rode the high like she’d ride a Psycho hit, feeling every bit of pleasure fizz across her naked body. 

And then the fucker started to move again, to get  _ his  _ end away. 

Fuck that.

Eyes shooting open, Cait pushed off of him and dropped to the floor, padding across the floor to where her pack lay on the couch of the room she was renting on Frost’s tab. Behind her, prick standing tall and twitching in the wind as he lay on the bed, the manwhore growled at her sudden dismount. 

“What the shit?” he gasped, sucking in great gulps of air as he turned to look at her with anger written across his face. 

“You new or somethin’?” she smirked as she sat down on the couch and started going through her bag, amused at both the anger and the rapidly wilting display before her. “You got paid to get  _ me  _ off, not to get off yourself. Job’s done, I paid your pimp at the desk, so get your shit and  _ piss off. _ ”

Leaping to his feet, the whore glared at her, again a thing made kinda hilarious by the fact that his dick was still bobbing along even as it shrunk to a size that made her wonder how he’d accomplished that job. “You fucking-”

Whatever he was going to say next was cut off as she found what she was looking for and pulled it out. The Psycho injector’s needle glinted in the room’s dim lights. “Know what this is?” she asked, almost casually. 

After a moment in which he wilted completely, the manwhore nodded, the littlest bit of fear puncturing the bravado and the pride. It made her happy. “Yeah.” 

“Good. Then you know to get the fuck outta here.” with practiced aim she slammed the thing into her leg and drove the plunger down, feeling the far more familiar rush take and lift the dregs of what he’d given to new heights. Her teeth flashed into a razor-edged smile. “Before you  _ piss me off. _ ” 

With that the whore was up and about, pulling on his clothes with speed that spoke of fear. Good. He should be frightened, the little fuck-for-pay. She’d kicked the shit out of guys twice the size of him even without Psycho. And this stuff, the stuff she’d bought from the chemdealer downstairs, was good shite. As he did so, she lay back against the couch, not giving a care that she was clam-ass naked. All that mattered was the stuff singing through her veins. 

* * *

On the floor below, Rick’s hand gripped the handrail of the stairs tight. His time in the army had given him the ability to set his legs on auto and just let them walk or march in a straight line without his brain having to direct them, but that kinda fell apart when it came to stairs. So with far more effort than it had taken to walk the block or so to the Rexford and across it’s decaying foyer, he started his ascent. 

_ ‘Damn you, Pierce.’  _ he grumbled internally as he swayed on the first landing before making the turn.  _ ‘You and McIntyre, you guys got me into the hard stuff.’  _ The thought of those two made him still. He had to be drunk if he was thinking about the old days. But considering today, he was entitled to a little debauch. Brother Ralph’d probably understand that. Hell, Father Gabriel’d probably have understood. God rest ‘em both.

He made it to the next floor up just in time to see a skinny disheveled blonde man storm out of one of the rooms ahead. Which was weird, because even now he was damn sure that was one of the room’s  _ he’d  _ rented for the others, the one across from his own. Bit of an expense that, but he’d not been in a mood to care, even before the whiskey. It’d been that kinda day. Walking down the corridor, he came abreast of the guy just in time to hear him muttering under his breath. 

“Fuckin’ mick bitch…” was all he heard as the man passed him by, but it was enough to have him whirling around, a flash of anger momentarily burning the alcohol’s fuzz away.

“What’d you just say?” he barked, laying into the blonde like he was some recruit he’d caught whispering at attention and taking what he hoped was a stable step forward. “Go on!”

The blonde, blue eyes wide as a deer - or radstag’s now, he supposed - almost jumped back, hands up as he looked him up and down. “Sorry pal, I-I didn’t mean anythin’ by-”

One of his own hands - the one not wrapped around the half bottle he had sticking out of one of his coats pocked - snapped out, pointing at the stairs. “Get outta here.” 

Eyes pinned wide, the guy did. At quite a pace too. One corner of Rick’s lips curled upwards and he felt a rather unworthy sense of pleasure at the fear he had somehow managed to spark in whoever that was. Sure, he was armed and had both chest and crotch covered in military combat armor, but he was also quickly becoming as drunk as several alcoholic skunks. He hoped the Brothers’d forgive him. It was unlikely God would. He’d already crossed that line  _ looonnngg  _ ago. 

Then he thought about what the blonde one had said and turned again.

* * *

The two hammering blows at her door made Cait growl through her teeth. 

_ “I swear, that little fucker’s gone to get his boss to complain that he didn’t get to shoot his load and I’ll-” _

Another two heavy thuds at the old wood cut off her imagined revenge plans and she snarled a ‘Fuck you’ under her breath as she sat up, dropping the needle into her pack and getting up off the couch. As she padded across the room she scrambled into her patched-up pants, not bothering with the buttons that’d close ‘em up properly and pulling on the first thing that’d cover her chest. Turned out to be her- _ Rick’s _ jacket. No matter, she zipped the thing up halfway, which with the pants covered the important bits. Only the ones she was actively fucking got to see anything. 

Tearing open the door she made ready to let loose a stream of curses, only for the first breath to die in her throat at what she saw. Rick, one hand on the doorframe, the other curled around a bottle of what looked like whiskey.

“Rick?” she managed to get out instead of a tirade. 

“You okay, Cait?” he asked, eyes blinking rapidly to readjust. Holy shite, he was  _ drunk. _ Not full-on mangling your words, stumbling over your own arse drunk, but still  _ drunk _ . Two sheets to the wind at least. “Saw that blonde guy come out, he seemed-”

Not wanting to think about the thin-dicked little shite, she cut him off. “I’m fine.” then the sight before her made her smile, properly. The hilarity of the sight before her cut through the Psycho and she leant against the doorframe on the opposite side to where his hand was. “See you’ve had a good night.”

“Figured I deserved one, wouldn't you say?” Rick answered, taking a swig of the bottle in his hand. “After a day spent digging through Kellogg’s head.” 

At that Cait wanted to bite her own tongue off and drown in her blood. Of course the man was drunk, he’d just watched his kid get stolen and his wife get killed  _ all over again. _ What kinda dumbass junkie was she, to have brought that shite u-

A sound cut across her thoughts, a sound that made them both look down the corridor from where it’d come from. A sound she’d been making only a few minutes ago. 

“Is that?” Rick said, his bluey-green eyes narrowing. 

“Piper?” she finished, before they looked back to each other. 

Rick blinked before chuckling to himself. “Guess that chat she was having with Magnolia turned into something a little more.” 

The images of the reporter at first stumbling over her words in front of the red-clad singer and then later on - before she’d left to get off back at the Rexford - of the two of them sat a private table in the Third Rail, flashed through her head along with a few imagined ones of what was going on down the hall. She laughed along with Rick, before they left the two of them to it. Looking down at the half-full bottle in his hand, Cait cocked a brow. “You need some help finishin’ that?” 

Rick looked down at the thing in his hand like he’d forgotten it was there. “Nah.” Then, in a bit of a surprise. “You have it.”

Taken aback by the gesture, she nonetheless grabbed the thing before he accidentally dropped it. Free booze was free booze. “You sure?”

“Mhm.” he nodded. “Need some sleep before tomorrow.” 

“Alright.” she shrugged, uncapping it and taking a swig. She raised her eyebrows at the fiery taste. The real stuff. Swallowing, she watched him turn and step across the hall to his door, getting the key in the lock with only one failed try. “Night, Rick.”

“Night, Cait.” he said, looking over his shoulder with a smile. “See you in the morning."

And then he was gone through the door, shutting the thing behind him, to most likely pass out on his bed with his coat off but boots still on. Shutting her own door, Cait slid down against it, almost making the middle knuckle of the finger she crammed between her teeth bleed with the effort of killing the sound as she laughed her arse off. She’d drunk with the guy before and knew he could put it away but she’d never seen him  _ that _ drunk before. She kept laughing silently through teeth clenched around her finger until her chest hurt and her breath wheezed. 

Getting up from the floor and crossing to the bed, she unzipped the jacket and threw it aside, dropping down onto the decidedly unsoiled side of the mattress. Relatively at least. Still grinning her head off, she took another belt of the whiskey. She’d have paid good money to see that, despite the cause. It had been good to see him like that, in a way. It made him human.More than the grand speeches and the do-gooding attitude that still sorta pissed her off, no matter that it resulted in good fights, that’d let her see the man behind the armor. And he weren’t half bad either. 

Tipping the bottle back again, she drained the thing, smiling as she did so. 


	12. Light Show

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, I'm back! Sorry for being gone so long, life once again got in the way. Anyway, hope you enjoy this little addition to our story of Rick Frost and his gang of misfits.

“Why we doin’ this again?”

Without looking back, MacCready smiled. Ah, but Cait was a woman after his own heart. Never do anything for free, that was her. And himself. There was enough danger in this scorched world of theirs that seeking it out without a chance of profit was a surefire way to end up face down in the dirt. Even the fact that what they were about was for his own benefit didn’t change his appreciation of the cage fighter’s mercenary nature. 

“Because MacCready asked for the help.” Frost’s measured words broke his unscrupulous meanderings, as they always did. But he supposed it was only fair, he wasn’t from nowadays. And at least he seemed to be learning, just a little bit. “And because the Gunners usually have decent gear on them. Might even find a hazard suit, if we’re lucky.”

The talk of hazard suits wiped the smile that’d been kinking the corners of MacCready’s mouth. He still wasn’t looking forward to the inevitable day when they’d find enough of the things and Frost’s mad crusade into the depths of the hell that was the Glowing Sea would begin. But he’d given his word and taken his caps, so that was that. At least for now they only had one of the things, along with Frost’s power armor. 

Bringing himself back to the now, he kept his gun up and his eyes open as they made their way south, towards the Mass Pike Interchange. Towards where Winlock and Barnes were based and would soon find out what it meant to keep threatening him. He’d been alone before, whilst now he had one hell of a group backing him up. Behind him as he walked on point, there was Rick Frost, General of the Minutemen and power armored veteran of the war that ended the world. There was Cait, who’d probably punch a deathclaw in the face given half the chance. There was the synthetic detective, Nick Valentine, whose adventures had been made near-legendary by Piper’s articles. And taking up the rear was Preston Garvey, a guy who’d survived when every other Minuteman had either died or hung up their goofy hats. 

And of course there was him, the best dam- _darned_ shot in the whole Commonwealth.

_‘Winlock and Barnes won’t know what hit ‘em.’_

Another hour or so of walking, punctuated by an attack by a particularly stupid herd of molerats, and they were getting close. A low rise was all that separated them from the approach to the Mass Pike. Frost’s Pip-Boy evidently told him so, as he put up an armored hand and called out, his voice a tinny whisper through the power armor’s vox-speaker. 

“Everyone, hold up, we’re almost there.” before pointing towards the ridgeline. “MacCready, with me, let’s take a look at what we’re dealing with.” 

MacCready nodded, kneeling down to first attach a scope-blind to his rifle before edging forward alongside Frost. The noise of Frost’s armor and hydraulics set his teeth on edge, for all that they were still a ways away from the Interchange, but he kept his mouth shut as they got towards the crest of the rise. Before them, the shattered road fell away again before curling away and up to meet the Interchange’s soaring bulk. There it stood, the crumbling and broken remains of the link between two of the old highways that criss-crossed the Commonwealth. Wind turbines turned slowly in the faint breeze, whilst ramshackle shelters had been thrown up atop and below the riven freeways. 

“Let’s take a looksie here.” he said, more to himself than to Frost as he raised his rifle. The extra bit of tubing he’d fixed over the scope would do enough to stop any light flashing off its glass and alerting any watchers on the highways. Beside him, he heard the now familiar _click_ as Frost lowered the viewfinder attached to his armor’s helmet. At what he saw, his stomach flipped and his jaw clenched. Winlock and Barnes had been busy. 

There were dozens of Gunners guarding the Interchange. 

Temper growing with every second, he turned his sights this way and that, totting up numbers and equipment. Whatever it was those two assh- _jerks_ were planning, it was big. No recruits to be seen, only well-armed and armored veterans. They even had a freakin’ _Assaultron_ with them. Even with the people with him at his back, this was a tall order. Perhaps _too_ tall. But the merest glimpse of Barnes as the Gunner went inside one of the shelters made him want to try it anyway. 

“Dammit.” Frost growled out through his armor’s speaker. “They’re dug in like ticks.”

“So what’s the plan?” MacCready kept looking through his scope as he spoke, but he definitely _heard_ Frost’s grin as he answered.

“Dig them back out.” he said, before an armored hand patted his shoulder. “Come on, let’s get back.” 

Nodding, MacCready followed Frost back down the slope to the others. They took the news as badly as he had finding it out firsthand. He couldn’t blame them, apart from maybe Garvey, this wasn’t their fight and he was asking them to go up against five times their numbers into the teeth of prepared positions. He wouldn’t have gone for it, in their position. He’d have turned around and walked away. Ran, if he thought they’d been spotted. 

“It’s bad, but not unbeatable.” Frost explained, kneeling down as the others gathered around and scratching a quick outline in the dirt with a finger. “The Gunners are dug in, both on the ground and in the heights of the freeway interchange. They’ve got maybe thirty men, well-armed and supported by an Assaultron.” 

“Shite.” Cait spat, before shaking her head. “That’s what you call ‘not unbeatable’?” 

“Far be it for me to agree with our resident pit-fighter,” Valentine added, getting himself a glare from Cait. “But those are some mighty long odds.” 

“They are.” Frost nodded. “But we’ve got a way to even them up a bit.” Then his metallic visage swung to face his fellow Minuteman. “Don’t we, Preston?”

It took a moment, but then The Last Minuteman’s face lit up. “That we do, General.” 

“What’re you two on about?” Cait demanded, face fixed in a deeper scowl than usual. 

Slinging his duffelbag down from one armored pauldron, Frost dug around in it before his hand emerged, holding what looked like a blue flare. “We’re talking about testing out the new Oberland Battery on them.”

Understanding dawned and every person gathered around, be they Minuteman, Mercenary, Pit-Fighter or Detective grinned. MacCready’s was the biggest. He’d heard the Minutemen had artillery back on their side again, but he’d never seen it first hand. That would _definitely_ even the odds. The rage at being cheated out of his revenge on those two jerks faded as he watched Frost key up his armor’s communication suite, which apparently piggy-backed off of the radio he always carried around on that bandoleer when he was just walking around his coat and pants. 

“Oberland Battery, I repeat Oberland Battery, this is General Frost.” the words rang tinnily out of his helmet’s speakers, for all they’d be heard plain as day on the transmission. “Are you receiving? Over.”

For a moment, there was nothing but silence. But that was to be expected, the only one who’d be able to hear any answer was Frost. Evidently he did, as he continued. 

“Call for fire, grid Delta-Gamma-5-3-9.” he intoned, the words making only little sense but obviously meaning something a lot more to the folks on the other end of the line. “Roughly thirty Gunners in heavy cover, danger close. Fire at my command and on my smoke, over.” Frost flipped the flare in his hand and caught it, evidently grinning from the tone of his voice as he spoke to them now. “Well that’s called in, now all I need to do is drop this close enough to those Gunners to guide the shells right onto their heads.”

MacCready shot a hand out, snatching the flare from out of the air. “I’ll do that.” 

Frost’s armored visage turned to face him full-on, along with everybody else’s. “You’re sure?"

“I am.” MacCready nodded, before smirking. “You try and do it and you’ll likely be drawing fire from them before you get halfway there and whilst your armor’ll probably be able to handle it, that’ll just let them dig in all the more. If I do it, we’ll have a chance to catch them in the open with their pants down.” He didn’t mention that he wanted to be the one to call the fire down on Winlock and Barnes’ heads.

After a brief moment of silent consideration, Frost returned the nod. “Fair enough, just stay safe and once the smoke’s away, get back here as fast as you can, you won’t have long.” 

“Got it.” he answered, turning back for the slope. Before he’d gotten far, though, he turned back, the joke he’d wanted to tell ever since he’d joined up with the guy over two weeks ago coming to his lips. “Just stay frosty, Frosty.”

He couldn’t see beyond the polarised visor-slit of Frost’s helmet. But he sure _felt_ the glare emanating out of it, the glare of a man who’s heard that joke a thousand times and was prepared to hear it a thousand more, but nevertheless detested it with every fiber of his being. Which made his own smile grow all the more, even as he turned back and set about getting as close to the Interchange as he could. 

He took his time, moving from hiding spot to hiding spot, his movements stacatto. Run, hide, wait, run, hide, wait. Behind wrecked and rusted out cars, in drainage ditches, it didn’t matter. Inch by inch, foot by foot, he made irresistible progress towards the small cluster of huts below the Interchange. His heart was pounding, the blood roaring in his ears, but the smile didn’t completely fall from his face. This was what he lived for. The calm before the storm. And the fact that that storm was coming in the form of artillery shells rather than a .308 made it all the sweeter. 

They didn’t see him coming. 

Sliding into cover behind a good-sized rock, he peered around its craggy surface. He was in the shade of the massive freeways overhead now, barely ten foot away was the smouldering remains of a campfire. Six of the Gunners were spread out in front of him in various locations. Three were standing guard, uselessly as it turned out. Another two were chatting about this or that as they stood by the elevator up to the Interchange. And one was pissing against the side of one the shacks, not a care in the world. Well that was about to change. 

Looking down at the flare in his hand, MacCready unscrewed the cap. This was it. Striking it, he was rewarded almost instantly by the first curling plumes of blue smoke. Jumping up from cover, he launched the thing end over end to land on top of one of the shacks in the centre of the little encampment, its position open enough to let the blue haze rise between the criss-crossing freeways, on-ramps, and off-ramps. Unless they knocked the whole shack down or managed to find a ladder quickly, nobody was getting rid of that. 

Then he was running. It was just over a couple of hundred meters back to the others and he needed to book it. Silently he hoped the flare’d distract the Gunners long enough to give him the precious seconds he’d need to get up enough speed. It did. Even as the shouting started and the alarm went up behind him, he was powering back the way he had come. Eventually the gunfire started, bullets and laz-blasts pocking the scorched earth around him, but he weaved and dodged and serpetined, throwing off their aim as he knew it would.

Before he was halfway back, he heard it. Just faintly in the far distance.

_BOOM._

* * *

Back at the lip of the ridge, Rick heard it too. The all too-familiar sound of distant artillery opening up. It was a sound that had become an old friend during his years in the army. It had murdered sleep outside of Anchorage, had preceded horror in the Yangtze basin. It had meant the death of friends and enemies alike, heralded the terror of hiding in a foxhole as the world tore itself apart around you, your armor nothing in the face of the death raining down on top of you. But with that familiarity had come contempt, the slow and yet unstoppable decline to where the mind ceased to register the horrific with the full force it was owed. 

So even as the first shell came down, erupting into a gout of fire and earth and shrieking death, he simply spoke into his armor’s microphone, relaying the words to the battery he’d ordered set up just outside Oberland Station. 

“Shot on target, fire for effect.” the words were blunt, clinical, uncaring of what the Gunners less than half a kilometer away were being subjected to. Just like so many times before, they ceased to be men and women and were just obstacles to be removed. It was how you survived calling down the firestorm.

His gaze shifted from the Interchange to the jinking figure of MacCready as he sprinted full-pelt back towards them. With that feeling came back in a rush as he willed the man on, heart starting to pound faster as the bullets zipped around him for a brief moment before thunder rolled on the far horizon as the full three gun battery opened up. Like clockwork, the scream of shells overhead was quickly lost in the lightning crash of high-explosive detonation and the howls of men in agony. Amidst it all, MacCready reached the slope and powered on up it, sliding into cover alongside Nick behind the lip of the rise like a baseball player reaching home.

“Eat that, you gobshites!” Cait’s smile was razor-edged as she crowed at the panicking Gunners, who were unable to strike back at the devastation raining down on top of them, and the fire glinted in her deep green eyes. Looking to his right and to his left, he saw her savage smile of glee matched on every face save Nick’s. Even Preston was grinning as he watched the carnage unfold before them. He couldn’t blame them. He’d done much the same the first time he’d watched what the older veterans had called ‘the best damned fireworks display you’ll ever see’. 

For himself, he simply turned and lay on his back, as comfortably as he could in his armor. There’d be three more volleys before he’d either have to call in another set or order another barrage. Until then, he could take a quick rest, even as the artillery boomed in the far distance, the explosions tore skywards, and the Mass Pike Interchange disintegrated before their eyes. True, they’d probably lose a fair bit of gear this way, but that wasn’t what they’d come here for in the first place. He hoped MacCready appreciated it.

Judging from his ecstatic holler as another volley crashed down, it certainly seemed like he did.


	13. All Aboard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, sorry for the big gap, both Christmas-prep and just real life stuff's been cutting down on how much writing I can get done. Hope you still enjoy it!

Deacon grinned to himself as they waited in the dark. He loved this, the theatrics, the intrigue. Sure Dez would dull it all up with talk of strategy, disorientation and good positioning, but in truth it was dramatic as hell and he  _ loved it. _ Well, apart from the waiting, anyway. He  _ could _ wait, he had the patience of a particularly placid brahmin, and it was seemingly a good half of what he did, but that didn’t mean it was something he  _ enjoyed. _ So, just like everything he didn’t enjoy, he tried to make it better. 

“Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall-” he sang to the darkness. 

“Deacon.” Dez said from a few steps in front of him.

“Ninety-nine bottles of  _ beeeer… _ ” he carried on regardless.

“Goddamnit, Deac.” Glory muttered from a few steps beside her. 

“Take one down, pass it around,” he was warming to the song. Maybe he should go on stage down at the Third Rail someday. Get a new face, a slinky little sequin number, really go for it.

“Every time. Every freaking time.” Drummer boy lamented.

“Ninety-eight bottles of beer on the wall!” he finished with delightful gusto, before taking a deep and dramatic breath to launch into the next verse.

“Deacon!” Des’ voice was a whipcrack in the darkness and it did shut him up. Boring song anyway, but their reactions? Priceless. “Either can it or wait inside.” 

“And miss the welcoming committee, Dez?” he smirked. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Then shut the f-” Glory started, before a sound stopped her talking.

The door was ratcheting open, somebody  _ had _ got through their delightful little ‘no illiterate assholes’ device. Either that or they were the luckiest blockhead in the entire Commonwealth. Didn’t matter either way, really. If they were smart, that was good. If they were lucky, that was almost better. They’d been running low on luck for too damn long. Hell, they’d even lost a runner  _ called _ Lucky just two weeks ago. Poor kid, he’d been decent. But then he’d run into the wrong subway station - probably looking for shelter from a radstorm - and that was that. A name proven false, some half-fed ferals, and another name scratched off the blackboard. 

With a grinding groan, the hidden door came to rest and a light shone through it, probably a torch. Seemed a bit high though, truth be told. The explanation for that came with the sound of heavy footsteps, far too heavy to be an ordinary guy even if he had the biggest feet and loudest boots in the world. And from the lack of the wafting smell of blood and excrement, it wasn’t some kind of educated mutie. Which meant-

_ Power armor. _

Pushing off the wall he’d been leaning against, he opened his mouth to hiss at Desdemona but before he could the bobbing beam of torchlight nearly reached them and Drummer Boy hit the switch and the lights went up and despite the fact they were pointed away  _ and  _ he was wearing his shades he still blinked and lost the moment. Glory revved her minigun and Dez stepped forward to give her little speech. 

Just as he’d worked out, the guy stood in front of them was clad in familiar black power armor, one curving shoulder plate now decorated with the crossed lightning bolt and musket of the Commonwealth Minutemen. That told him all he needed to know, even if the way he was protectively stood in front of a certain red-headed pit fighter and had both Nick Valentine and Robert Joseph MacCready at his back, along with his dog, confirmed it loud and clear. 

Richard Frost, General of the Commonwealth Minutemen, had come a-callin’. 

“Stop right there.” Dez said in her best hardass voice, not caring that both MacCready and the Cait the Pit Fighter had drawn down on her and Frost’s combat rifle was in his hands. Even with Glory standing ready, he didn’t actually dig the odds. “You’ve gone to a lot of effort to get here, but before we go any further, answer my questions. First, who  _ the hell  _ are you?”

Before he could swan in and cool this down, Frost had stepped forward, hand falling from his rifle. ‘Course in a suit like that he could probably fire the thing one handed, but it was a nice touch. “I followed the Freedom Trail looking for the Railroad. If that’s who you are, I am not your enemy.”

“That remains to be seen,” Des was determined to keep up the hardass routine, even as she glanced over her shoulder. “Deacon, I need intel. Who is he?”

Now was his time to shine and do what he did best, be an ass. “Jeez, Dez, you live under a rock?” he smirked at his own joke and was rewarded with the scowl he wanted. “Newsflash, boss, this guy is kinda a big deal out there.” his smirk turned into a grin he sent towards Frost, met only by the metallic grimace of his helmet. Why had they made those things have frowny-faces anyway?

“We’ve met before.” to his surprise, a surprise that he kept hidden behind his grin and his glasses, the words weren’t a question. They were a statement. The guy had made him. Or at least was bluffing like a caravan hand.

“I didn’t need to meet you to hear about you. You’ve made waves.” he answered, the words delightfully vague, before turning back to Dez. “Dez, seriously, you haven't heard of him? He's the leader of the Minutemen, seems like the whole Commonwealth is flying his flag. He took back the Castle, blew the Mass Pike to hell with some big guns, and’s killed more psychos and muties than Tom’s had accidents. If he keeps it up he’ll be at the full-on ‘kissing babies and people asking for his healing touch’ stage in a month. And what’s more? He. Killed.  _ Kellogg. _ ” he momentarily swung to Frost, replastering his grin across his face. “The Railroad owes you a crate, hell a truckload, of Nuka-Cola for that score. He was our Public Enemy Number One.” With that, he turned back and unleashed the two deadliest words in his arsenal.  _ “Trust me _ , Dez. We want this guy on our side.”

Whilst his only response from Frost was an impassive stare, he guessed, Dez’s eyes narrowed. “That changes things.” turning back to him, she cocked an eyebrow. “So, stranger, why did you want to meet with us anyway?”

Reaching up with his free hand, Frost popped the seals on his helmet and pulled it off, revealing that strong-jawed, soft-eyed, straight-nosed face he’d first spotted weeks ago walking into Diamond City with Piper. The face that’d have made him a movie star in the old days before the War. The face that seemed to have lost what little bits of ‘little lost lamb’ it had had back then in the intervening time. Man was the soldier Piper had called him in her article through and through now, which was just what they needed, along with the other stuff he’d seen and picked up on. 

“Because the enemy of my enemy is my friend.” he answered, somewhat dramatically but he digged it. Just like he’d digged the speech he’d given to the Minutemen after they’d buried their old General and got their big guns back. “You’re the only ones fighting the Institute from what I hear and I want to take them down.”

_ Perfect. _

Dez sighed. “I'd like to say that nobody comes here out for blood. Out for revenge. That everyone's here to help their fellow man.” the boss-lady gave one of her little shrugs. “That would be a lie, though.”

“I want to take them down because they’re a threat.” Frost’s voice was as cold as his name all of a sudden. “Because I’ve seen and heard what they’re doing to people. Revenge for what they did to me would just be a bonus.” 

Dez’s face brightened, a bit of an odd reaction to the hard words but Dez was Dez. “Amen to that.” Then she tilted her head slightly. “What did they do to you?”

“They kidnapped my son.” Frost’s words were blunt. The others made signs of sympathy and Deacon broke his long-standing habit and did likewise, for all that he’d already known. Something in his mind squirmed and he hammered it down. Not the time. “And killed my wife.”

“I’m sorry.” Desdemona answered, genuinely, before she built her walls back up again. “If we're going to be dealing more with each other, I need to make sure we're on the same page. I can see you already know what a synth is.” Deacon took the moment to wave to an unimpressed-looking Nick Valentine, who didn’t grace him with a reply. “And I have one last question. The only question that matters. Would you risk your life for your fellow man? Even if that man is a synth?”

Frost looked at them all then, his blue-green eyes flicking from him, to Drummer Boy, then to Glory before meeting before ending back at Dez. They never wavered, even as he nodded. “A long time ago, I swore an oath to protect my countrymen. As far as I’m concerned, it still stands, whether they’re human, ghoul, or synth.”

Deacon’s eyes widened behind his glasses. He could bullshit with the best of them but he’d never be able to match the conviction Frost spoke stuff like that with. It was impressive, freaky, and inspiring all at once. It even managed to get only tiny eyerolls from the pit-fighter and the merc sniper standing behind him, rather than the laughter other people’d have gotten. On the reverse, Valentine’s polymer face was split by a wide smile and Dez had the same expression, much as she was trying to hide it behind her hardass leader facade. 

“Well said,” she replied, with the teeny-tiniest of nods of recognition. “You were right about us. We're the only ones in the Commonwealth brave enough, or stupid enough, to fight the Institute. And we could always use more brothers-in-arms.” And then Dez had to go and be Dez. “But right now we don't have time to train up a new agent. There are, however, other valuable ways you can contribute. And in turn, we can help you and your Minutemen. See Deacon for the details.” 

And so there he was, left standing with the dirty end of the stick, as Dez and the others seemingly swore off the golden opportunity standing right in front of them decked out in black power armor. Well that wasn’t going to do. 

That wasn’t going to do  _ at all. _

* * *

Two days later, he was walking through the tunnels that led to the backdoor of the headquarters, his new fellow agent beside him. The time since Rick Frost had walked into that chamber a ways back from where they were now had been entertaining, to say the least. To be sure, he was just as he’d expected, all righteousness and nobility, but he had a streak of fun in him that stopped it being priggish. 

They’d met up at the rendezvous just like he’d asked and he’d been duly appreciative of his wastelander camo. Rick had ditched all of his crew except for his dog and ol’ Nick Valentine, which was good. He didn’t doubt Cait and MacCready could fight, but he also didn’t doubt they didn’t give a shit about synths. Or anyone beyond themselves and - at a push - their friends, to be honest. He’d also ditched his power armor, which was better. There was being a Heavy and there was clattering around like a box of cutlery being hurled down a flight of stairs. He’d still been wearing his General’s duds though. At first, he’d been leery of that, but Rick’d made the decent point that it was camo of another kind. If he was wearing this stuff, anything they pulled would like the Minutemen were out fighting the good fight, nothing more. 

After that, the Switchboard Op had been a cinch. Between the two of them, they’d gone through the Gen Ones and Twos occupying the place like crap through a brahmin. Rick was good, even if every twitch and look showed he wasn’t one for sneaking around when there was an enemy to fight. At least he’d taken to the codephrases like a champ. Without so much as a scratch or a scorch, they’d gotten Carrington his prototype back. They’d also gotten Tommy Whispers’ little handcannon back, which was a bonus. He’d tried to pass it on to his replacement, but Frost’d refused. Quite graciously, too. It wasn’t his style, after all. The difference between his and Whispers’ pistols - a large burst-automatic and a concealable silenced number - yelled that loud and clear, for all that they were both 10mms. Though he’d been positively  _ giddy  _ about a pair of hazmat suits, which had been a fair swap for the work. 

Together, they’d come back to HQ like a pair of conquering heroes and now he and the newly dubbed ‘Wanderer’ were off to the place he laid his head. The thought of it just made Deacon want to smile all the more, for all he kept it from his face. The desire not to smile was compounded when he put a foot wrong and filthy river water slipped in over the top of one of his boots. Shaking it off, he looked at the man beside him. 

“So, you’ve met the whole cavalcade of crazy now.” he said as they reached the drier part of the tunnels. “What do you think?” 

“I didn’t see much crazy,” Frost chuckled, keeping his eyes straight ahead. “Well, Tom excepted.”

Deacon’s eyebrows twitched upwards. “We’re a bunch of nobodies squatting in the catacombs of an old church, trying to fight  _ The Institute _ , Rick. Even you gotta admit that’s kinda crazy.”

“It’s a fight that needs to be had.” the taller man shrugged, even as he put his shoulder to the large security gate in their path. “And it’s not the first time people have stood up to insurmountable odds to fight a good fight. The American Revolution, for one. The  _ original  _ Underground Railroad, for another. And the list goes on.”

“I’m not hearing any proof that we’re not crazy.” Deacon replied as he typed in the code to shunt the locking bars back and then helped him push the heavy door on its stiff hinges open and then closed again. “Just that we’re in good company.” 

Rick’s answer was a grin. “Either way, I’m more than glad I signed on. Even with Tom being...Tom and Carrington being-”

“The guy with the most dire case of ‘stick-up-ass’ ever recorded?” Deacon supplied.

The grin grew. “You said it, not me.”

Together they made their way through the latter part of the secret tunnel, up into the ruined building that hid its entrance. Place had been some sort of music store, back in the waybackwhen, far as he could guess. They’d pulled sheafs of sheet music out of drawers and cupboards, along with a few harmonicas that he’d put to excellent use annoying the others, back when they'd done a salvage sweep after they’d moved in. That hadn’t lasted long, Glory had used the last for target practice. Well, what she  _ thought  _ was the last at least. 

Exiting the building, Deacon turned to make sure he heard the locking bar fall back into place. But as he did he heard Frost almost splutter in surprise.

“Yeah, was meaning to bring that up at some point.” he said, turning back around and placing a hand on the guy’s shoulder as he stood looking down the street. “Gotta say thanks, by the by, the increased traffic has been a godsend for hiding our coming and going.” 

As they looked up at the concrete wall and the pizza place half a block beyond it, Deacon patted the big guy’s shoulder comfortingly. “Love what you did with the place, Wanderer. Food on you this time?”


	14. Small Beginnings

Cait smiled as she took another swig of whiskey, letting the burning amber liquid flow down her gullet. Shite but today’d been good. Sure, it had begun with some squawking coming through that two-way radio Rick had slung across his chest ever since he’d started going around in that centuries-old fancy dress and the resulting news that they were going to yet again help out a bunch of weak-willed idiots that couldn’t solve their own problems. But once they’d gotten past all that shite, there’d been a damn good fight waitin’ for ‘em. 

Some of those dressed-up Triggermen arseholes had set themselves up a nice little racket at an old racetrack, actually racing old rustbuckets and rewired robots. If she’d been running the place, that’d have been enough: run the races, milk punters for every cap they had, live large on the proceeds. But then they started bullying the poor shites that lived on the beach nearby. Which made them call in the Minutemen, which meant that  _ they  _ got to break down their front door and kick their teeth in and it’d been bloody good fun. She’d cracked three of the bastard’s skulls, blown another’s face off with her shotgun, and put another down with a gutshot and left him to bleed out. It’d been  _ great _ , just what she’d needed. 

Lowering her bottle, she looked around the fire. Looked at all the smiling, happy,  _ drunk _ faces. Upon coming back from kicking the shite out of the Triggermen, the farmers had offered them a party. They’d accepted, naturally. For the last few hours it’d been all booze, food, tall tales and jokes. It was an odd gang of misfits she’d fallen in with, following Rick Frost. A road-weary sniper, a robot butler, a mangy mutt, a gobby reporter, and her. And that was to say nothing of the ones that dropped in and out of their little band. A synth P.I, a synth-loving spy, and a Minuteman as naive as he was handsome. 

They’d all done well enough in the fight too, she supposed. Even Piper had managed to put a few of the suit-wearing tosspots down with that little pea-shooter of hers. Bizarrely, Codsy had been the one to take the most kills. For all he talked like some fruity pre-war Brit, the bot had dived into the stands, buzzsaw and flamethrower at the go. She’d almost wanted to laugh at the sight. As she had when Rick, decked out in his power armor, had charged into the Triggermen’s main base and about thirty seconds later thrown their leader - who’d been squawking over some speakers throughout the fight - out of the second story window. 

The thought of their intrepid leader made her look around for him. She scowled. His power armor was there, standing off to one side like some black looming giant, but the man himself wasn’t. Taking another swig of whiskey, she stood up, ignoring any comment or question, and left the fire. She walked slowly around the larger of the three huts the people here lived in,the only one made of pre-War brick and mortar. She was suddenly very much aware of the night’s darkness and what could lie within it. Her free hand dropped to her waist and the knife she had there. Just in case. 

On the other side of the brick house, she looked out at the shoreline. The moon was full and the sky clear. In the silverish light, she saw him. Only just, but there he was, sitting on the beach. A smile came to her lips at the sight. Safe enough then. Part of her wanted to go back to the fire, but something kept her looking at him. 

He was an odd one, Rick Frost. Not mad - though the way he hurled himself into danger for people he didn’t even know would say otherwise - but rather...she’d never known another person like him. Everything about him was  _ wrong _ to her eyes. And yet it wasn’t. By the right of everything she’d ever known, the Commonwealth should’ve taken a man like him - decent, caring, always willing to lend a hand - and chewed him up and spat him back out once he was dead. But it hadn’t. He survived. He kept going. And it wasn’t just because he ran around in a suit of power armor, could put three bursts in a raider before the chemmed up bastard had let go of his dick and grabbed his gun, and call down a firestorm of artillery with not so much as a blink. 

Her thoughts, greased by the whiskey in her guts, ran on. Memories flitted by. Him telling Tommy that he wouldn’t take her with him unless she  _ wanted  _ to go; him giving her his jacket, which she had on even now, simply because she was cold; the way he fought, the way he moved; the way he matched her drink for drink without any trouble; them laughing together in the Dugout Inn or any other place over those drinks. Despite herself, she remembered walking in on him as he’d been changing out of the fatigues he’d used to wear before he’d taken up that blue coat. The memory of the seemingly carved musculature of his chest and arms made her smile broaden. 

But it faded as she remembered other things, other times,  _ darker _ times. The rest of her whole crap-strewn life. Her parents, the raiders,  _ Stratton.  _ All the shite she’d been through bubbled back up, smearing itself across the things she’d just been smiling about. Nothing in this world came free, there was always a cost whether you knew it or not. Part of her wanted nothing more than to go back to the fire and drink those thoughts away, or find a quiet place and pop some Psycho. 

And yet she was already walking across the sand. 

Drawing near, she saw him look over his shoulder before he went back to whatever it is he was looking at. Despite wanting not to, the words tumbled out of her mouth. “Have a minute? Got somethin' on my mind.”

Turning his head to look up at her properly, Rick smiled. His teeth were very white in the moonlight. With a hand he indicated the sand beside him. The other, she noticed, was wrapped around a bottle of that Amontilladiloo stuff they’d pulled out of the cellars beneath The Castle, wasn’t to her taste but it got you drunk enough all the same. “Of course, Cait, anything you need.”

“Anythin' I need, huh? I might take you up on that one day.” she grinned, sitting down beside him and raising her bottle in a toast, letting the whiskey she’d already drained from it talk while her mind tried to finally catch up to her actions. Rick’s answer was to simply smile and tap his wine bottle against it before they both took a hefty swig each.

After a moment spent in a friendly sort of silence, just watching the ink-black waves roll and break on the sand, she spoke up again, looking over at him. “Y’know, after Tommy stuck me with you, I was expectin' to hate your guts.”

Rick’s answer was a low chuckle. He had a good laugh, him. “My guts’ wounded feelings aside, why?”

“Because you agreed to pick up me contract. And sure you did it nice enough, but I was still waitin' for you to order me around like hired help.” the words were flowing now and while part of her wanted to cram them back in and forget the whole thing, she knew they had to come out.

That made Rick turn to look at her, his brows knitted together. “What? What did you think I was after?”

“Who knows?” Cait tried and failed to keep the bitterness from her voice. “Doin' your laundry, takin' a bullet for you, haulin' your gear, suckin’ your dick.” she drowned the memories that tried to stir of other times, other people, with another glug of whiskey. “What's the difference?” 

Beside her, Rick sat up properly. “Cait-”

“Just shut up, I’m tryin’ to say somethin’.” she snapped, before kicking herself for doing so. She shouldn’t have started this, shouldn’t have opened her gob. “So far, you've been treatin' me like a friend. Hell, you've been damn near  _ NICE  _ to me. I don't mean to sound ungrateful, but your kindness is startin' to make me wonder. If there's anythin' I learned at the Combat Zone, it was that  _ nobody  _ does things for other people without expectin' somethin' in return.

The concern on Rick’s face turned into a sneer. He actually  _ scoffed _ . “You're comparing me to a bunch of chemmed up raiders?” 

The shift in expression actually made her smile. Just a little. “You don't even come close to the losers that pollute the place. Just ask  _ them _ .” she jerked her head back over a shoulder, towards the fire and the people sitting around it, making merry. But then everything crashed back in again like one of those waves out there and she sighed. “Ah, shit, Rick, listen. I spent three years livin' at the Combat Zone. Smelled like puke and piss, but I called it home. I was makin' a few caps, had me own bed to sleep in and three hot meals a day. Then the Raiders took over the place. You know that lot, they aren't exactly what you'd call "the gentle type." After they moved in, if you didn't keep lookin' over your shoulder, you were liable to get sucker punched and robbed.” 

She took a very heavy swig, nearly draining the bottle trying to burn away memories of grabbing hands and Stratton’s cold smile. “...or worse. Didn't take me long to learn that I had to put my hard-earned caps to good use. Buyin' friends was essential to makin' life easier. So I guess I'm waitin' for you to hand me a bill, you know what I mean?” She made herself look at him again, into those green-blue eyes that were nearly black in the night’s gloom and were now hard as steel. 

“You don’t owe me a damn thing, Cait.” Rick’s voice was as cold as his last name. “Not a single cap.”

Now it was her turn to scoff. “You’ll forgive me if I'm havin' a real hard time believin' that. Everyone out here-”

“I’m not-” Rick started but she cut him off.

“I know! Y’bloody said that already.” she snarled, not needing to hear ‘I’m not them’ once again. She growled out a breath, trying to calm herself, to cool the Psycho ebbing in her veins. When she let herself speak again, she’d regained some of the calm with which she’d first spoken. “I'll tell you what. Give me some time, and I'll think of somethin' I can do to repay you. I'm not a rich girl, but I'm sure we can agree on somethin'.” Then she added something that surprised even her. Something she wished she could’ve blamed on the whiskey. “After all, what are friends for?”

Before her eyes, in the pale light of the moon, Rick’s face softened. His eyes lost the hardness they’d held. He smiled again, that warm, small smile, and held up his bottle. “Enjoying a drink on the beach with?”

And before she could stop herself or think about doing otherwise, Cait smiled back. Properly. “I’ll take that.” Once again their bottles clinked together and she drained the whiskey in hers almost to its last dregs. “So what were you thinkin’ about, out here on your lonesome?”

“The stars.” Rick answered, looking from her to the things themselves.

Now it was Cait’s turn to knit her brows. “The  _ stars _ ?”

Rick nodded, his smile telling her he at least knew how odd that sounded. “Yeah. Back in the waybackwhen, you couldn’t see them this clear. There was always smoke from factories, trails from planes, you name it. Back then I couldn’t see half of those.” With his free hand, he swept an expansive wave across the night sky. 

Cait’s frown deepened. They were just  _ stars,  _ poxy little pinpricks of light in the sky. “So?”

“So..” Rick trailed off, before he finally answered. “They give me hope. Looking up at them, it tells me that no matter  _ what  _ this new world I’ve walked to is, no matter its pain, it’s  _ cruelty _ , its ugliness, there’s  _ light  _ and” he looked down, staring at the sand in front of them. If she didn’t know any better she would’ve almost called that shyness. “great beauty still to be seen.” 

Cait thought on what he’d said. She didn’t get it. But if it helped him deal with the world’s shite, then all the power to him. Leaning forward to catch his eyeline, she raised a final toast. “To the stars then.”

Once again, Rick smiled that broad slash of white in the darkness and raised his wine bottle. “To the stars.”

With a final  _ clink _ she drained the last of the dregs and threw the bottle aside before sitting back to look at the man beside her. He was a bloody odd one, sometimes, Richard Frost. But not a bad one. And she’d meant what she’d said. All of it. She’d find a way to pay back his kindness. And not just because it was a debt that needed seeing to. But because that’s what friends did. Far as she knew.

Lying back against the cool sand, she looked up at the stars, watching them glint and gleam faintly in the blackness of the void. 

She’d never had a friend before. 

Not a proper one. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoyed and I hope you all have as merry a christmas as you can this year!


	15. Echoes of the Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Not to worry, I'm not dead and neither is Fixing a Broken World! Sorry for there not having been an update in such a while, but it's for a good reason (good for me, anyway). That reason is that, after a year of searching in the middle of a pandemic, I finally got a job! 
> 
> But don't worry, whilst obviously being back in the world of work means less time to write, I definitely don't intend to stop doing so anytime soon. So enjoy this chapter and I hope you stick around for more!

Walking around in four-hundred pounds of steel, aluminium, and silver composite is rarely done with a light tread, but even beyond that Rick’s step was leaden. It shouldn’t have been, today had been a decent day by Commonwealth standards. A raider camp wiped out, an innocent settler saved from kidnapping and no doubt an uglier fate, and a mug of Bobrov’s Best waiting for him when they got back to Diamond City. And all without so much as a scuffed knee for him or any of the others. And yet, his mood was low as he strode down the shattered street. 

It was hard for it not to be, walking down the shattered remains of where you’d grown up.

North Roxbury, where he’d lived from the age of three to the age of eighteen, had been a bustling place, back in the day. There’d been jazz clubs and movie theatres, delis and restaurants, coffee shops and social clubs, everything a neighborhood needed to really zing. To really  _ be  _ a neighborhood. Sure, he’d not been into even  _ half  _ of those places, even on days out. But they’d still been a part of him, growing up. And now they were gone, all that was left were broken and looted remnants. A jazz club on the corner came into view, a place that had always thrummed with energy and light, where musicians and their fans had stood out in vibrant colors and styles at odds with the clean, respectable lines of modern fashion. Now it was just a blasted husk with its windows smashed in.

“You doing okay, boss?” MacCready’s voice cut across the memories, made him tilt his head over one armored shoulder. At the rear of their column of march - such as it was, with only a squad of six plus Dogmeat - the sniper’s brow was furrowed as he looked back from checking the way they’d come for any sign they were being followed. “Feels like something’s bugging ya.”

“I’m all right.” Rick lied, before looking back to the road ahead, scanning every inch of the view in front of him for the smallest hint that someone was out there. “It’s just I grew up around here.”

“I thought you used to live in Sanctuary?” Preston called out from the middle of the line. 

“When I came home from the war, sure.” Rick answered, this time not turning around as he fought down the memories of that year of suburban bliss. “But here - Roxbury - is where I grew up.”

“Hope it was in better shape than this.” Piper put in, her tone all wary consideration as she looked around at the blasted ruin that was Roxbury nowadays.

They carried on in silence after that, the only noise the tramp of their feet and the occasional curse as a foot snagged on the debris of two centuries or the hock of someone spitting out the dust kicked up by their passage. And all the while Rick wrestled with the ghosts of his old life that seemed to drift up from the shattered sidewalks and the buildings beyond them. The first jazz club he got dragged into at the age of seventeen by his friends when they snuck out after curfew, the diner he always went to when they had days out because it had the best beef sandwich in Boston. And the people. The bustling, talking,  _ living  _ people. 

But then his internal war came to an end as the air began to fizz, the sky began to darken, and the geiger warning began to blink in his helmet’s display. 

“Shite, radstorm!” Cait cursed from behind him. 

Immediately his mind switched lanes. He was wearing the personal equivalent of a fallout shelter, no rads were getting to him, but the others weren’t. They needed shelter from the latest howler the Glowing Sea had seen fit to spit at them and they needed it  _ fast _ . The wood and sheet metal frontages of the buildings around them wouldn’t do. They needed something sturdy, they needed-

“On me!” he roared above the growing crackle of ozone in the air and then took off, the hydraulics of his rig coming fully to life as he powered down the broken street, his friends in hot pursuit after him. He had no need of any map or the compass on his helmet-display, he knew  _ exactly _ where he was going. Off West Cottage Street, onto Blue Hill Avenue, then turn onto Dudley, then just down the block on Magazine Street past the church. 

Even in a nuclear-blasted world, the building loomed large, just as large as in his memories. One of the older buildings in Roxbury, built before waves of immigrants had turned the neighborhood into one less desired by the Boston elite. As green lightning began to flash about its broken weathervane he smashed through its sagging iron-wrought fence and powered up the stone steps to the double doors his power armored shoulder all but snapped from their hinges. 

“Come on!” he called, making sure everyone was in before he hurled them back into a semblance of their closed position, before leading everyone down the hall, into the corridor and down the steps to the basement. 

It didn’t fully register until they were all huddled in the basement, him flicking his armor’s headlamp on for the light before dismounting from his rig, that he’d done it. After over two centuries. And after more months of never wanting to see what had happened to it.

He’d finally come home.

* * *

What seemed like hours later but more than likely wasn’t the sound of howling wind and crackling lightning and roaring thunder finally began to die away to a milder moan, infrequent crashes, and the occasional rumble. As it did so, everyone began to sit a little easier in their bolthole in the basement. They were all old hands at living with the radstorms the Glowing Sea sent tearing through Boston but it was still good that this one was starting to blow off. To be sure, it wasn’t as if any of them were  _ scared _ of the things, but a radstorm avoided was one less reason to have to go to the doc and get your system flushed and all the burning discomfort that came with it.

Hearing the storm starting to lose some of its fury, Piper looked over at where Rick was sat with his back to the basement’s stone wall, his face illuminated by his Pip-Boy’s glow as he fiddled with the thing. “So Rick, what is this place?” 

“Yeah, boss.” MacCready chimed in. “The way you ran through the streets just to get here of all places, you obviously know it. What's it to you?” 

If not for the way his eyes unfocussed from the screen in front of him, Piper would’ve thought they hadn’t heard him. But he had. And so, after a few moments of heavy silence, he sighed and looked up, his expression suddenly very tired. “It’s where I grew up.” he explained. “St Patrick’s Home for Orphaned Boys.”

Piper’s eyebrows shot up and she saw similar surprise on the faces around her. Before she could ask the obvious question, Cait got in before her.

“You’re an orphan?” she asked, from where she was perched atop an old box that’d long since had any identifying marks erased by time. The cage fighter had her eyes fixed on Rick, her head slightly tilted as she obviously considered him anew. She had to admit, she was doing the same herself, she’d imagined Blu-  _ Rick _ had to remember to call him Rick or Richard or anything other than Blue, he didn’t like that for some reason - grown up in a happy family, along with other invented details of a peaceful pre-War existence besides his time in the army. 

Rick’s answer was a nod. “My parents died when I was young, maybe three? There was no one else, so I was placed here with the priests.”

“Priests?” MacCready couldn’t quite keep his amusement out of the one word question. 

Another nod. “I was a Catholic, so the city sent me here rather than to one of the state homes. There were four of them: Father Gabriel, Brother Ralph, Brother Antony, and Brother Michael. They raised us, me and the others. We had warm food, dormitories to sleep in, and they gave us an education. Then at eighteen off you went into the wide wide world to make your way.”

“How was it, growing up here?” Preston’s voice, always calm and warm came from the corner where he was sat, back also against the wall, 

Piper watched as Rick’s lips twitched slightly. “Happy enough. The Brothers were firm but fair, never punished us without reason. And we had days out and the like, we weren’t cooped up here the whole time.” For a little while silence reigned in the basement, just the softer sounds of the storm starting to blow itself out echoing in the empty air. Then Rick got up, patting himself down to dislodge dust and whatever from his blue frock coat. “Sounds like the storm’s dying back, might as well take a look around and see if there’s anything to salvage.”

“You gonna be okay with that?” Piper asked. She would’ve been a bit weirded-out by the idea of him and the others ransacking her childhood home, no matter the need and the fact she hadn’t been there in years. 

He nodded. “Yeah.” then, lips flitting into a ghost of a smile, he breathed a laugh. “Just go easy on the old place, hm?” 

And so, with promises and nods abound, they got up and set to work. It was a big building, with four floors packed with rooms and so - splitting into teams of two a floor - they went about clearing each of the three upper ones first. It had been a nice place once, to Piper’s eyes, with wood panelling on the walls and carpets that would have been - if not  _ plush  _ \- then at least nice to walk on before the slow decay of a couple of centuries had taken their toll. It was weird when she and Nick had walked into what had obviously been the dormitory Rick had talked about and seen the long rows of beds lining the walls. 

“He must’ve slept in one of these as a kid.” she said, more to herself than to Nick, but the synthetic detective spoke up anyway. 

“Probably why he joined the army in the first place: more of the same regulation.” he surmised as he went through one of the footlockers at the end of one of the beds. “That and his patriotism and whatnot.” 

Piper hummed a response, before joining him in going through the rest of the footlockers. As she did so - not really expecting anything but even something like the screws from a toy car could be useful in the right situation - her mind ran on. She found that, try as she might, she couldn’t really imagine Rick as a kid. Sure, she could shrink him down and make him clean-shaven, but she couldn’t imagine what he was  _ like _ . She couldn’t imagine him running around, shrieking with laughter as he played, or having a crush, or having a temper tantrum. Everything about the man was...old. 

Not in a bad way, of course. And sure, he could laugh and have fun, his smile was...brilliant. But there was always that inner reserve about him. He was, by her reckoning, only in his late twenties, barely a few years older than her. But he just seemed so much older, even without the two hundred years and change he’d spent on ice. And then there was everything else: old-school decency, old-school compassion. As of recently, old-school clothing. The others, apart from Nick, she could imagine as kids: MacCready being a little shit, bigger mouth than his size; Cait probably a tearaway terror, not that much had changed since then; Dogmeat the adorable, inquisitive puppy he pretty much still was when he wasn’t tearing throats out; and Deacon being just as much of a sarcastic, infuriating...Deacon. But Rick? She just couldn’t do it. 

Heading back down with some screws, glue, and a small pile of various comics, meeting the others on the way, they all came together in the place’s big open hall with its black and white tiled floor. They piled their salvage on a long table running around one wall, its decorated cloth covering worn down by time to be almost threadbare. The others had found a little better, but overall it was nothing to write an article about. With a few directions from Rick, they split up entirely, all heading for different rooms. As it happened, she ended up in a classroom.

It was another eerie feeling, walking amidst the rows of desks, looking at the faded and tattered remnants of work pinned up on the boards set on the walls. Kids had sat in these chairs, learning things they’d been told would serve them well in their lives. Lives they’d never get to live. Lives that’d all come crashing down one day over two centuries ago, in the blastwave of nuclear armageddon. Opening one of them that was midway up the row against the inside wall, she saw curled and delicate paper workbooks, not salvageable by any means. Would crumble to dust before you could even so much as use them for kindling. But the faded, spidery lettering was all that remained of a kid who’d died so long ago, even if they’d managed to survive The War. She could just make out the name on the front of one of them: Johnny Mills. 

Then she blinked as she spotted something else. A pair of initials scratched into the wood of the underside of the desk’s lid. 

**R.F**

_ “Brother Martin gave me  _ **_quite_ ** _ the talking to when he found that.”  _

Heart skipping a beat, she whirled around, hand falling unconsciously from where she'd been about to touch the letters scored into the wood to the pistol at her side. Rick was standing in the doorway, a sad smile on his lips, his eyes on the desk itself rather than her, before they flitted to meet her own. Once again she was struck by the weight behind those eyes. Not quite sorrow, not quite pain. Not even emptiness. Two hundred years and change stared out from behind those eyes, even if he hadn’t been awake for them. She supposed it was what let him do with words what some people couldn’t even do with guns. It made you sit up and pay attention to him. 

“This was yours?” she asked, managing to shake herself out of the surprise and her thoughts. 

He nodded. “Once upon a time. Sat there learning history, geography, literature. Name a humanity, Brother Martin could teach it.” With his usual long, controlled strides he walked up beside her and looked down into the desk. “Seemed so much bigger back then, even when I was older.” 

“You find anything?” she asked, knowing that she needed to keep him here and now, not with the ghosts of the past. There’d be time for that later, preferably back in the Dugout with some drinks in hand. 

He shook his head. “Not really, seems someone’s been here before. Janitor’s closet was almost stripped bare.” His eyes met hers again. Those deep blue-green eyes. “You?”

“Hadn’t really started.” she answered, before smiling and deliberately making her voice lighter. “Wanna give me a hand? Many hands, light work and all that.”

Closing the desk gently, Rick’s smile returned for just a flash. “Sure.” 

And so they did, dividing the desks between them. As she expected, they didn’t find much. A few sheafs of paper had survived in a usable condition and so she took them for the printing press back home. A couple of the kids had had bubblegum or other sweets tucked away in their desks and so she took that too. But the biggest score was when she was going through the grand oak desk at the front of the class and managed to snap open the old latch on one of the lower drawers. With a grin of triumph, she lifted the bottle out. 

“Hey Rick!” she called happily, swirling the amber liquid in the bottle. “Whiskey!”

There was a sharp  _ crack  _ as Rick’s head smacked into the lid of one of the desks he’d part-way opened as he rooted around in it. 

“ _ What? _ ” the word almost choked out in a mix of pain and surprise. After a heartbeat he followed it up with a disbelieving smile as he rubbed at the sore spot. “You’re shitting me.”

Piper blinked again, she’d never heard Rick swear in anything but anger until now. It almost didn’t seem right. In answer she swished the bottle around again in demonstration. “Seems not.”

At that he laughed a high, almost cackling laugh of surprise and amusement rather than his usually deeper chuckle or barking belly-laughs. “Fair play to you, Brother Martin, fair play.” 

She joined him in the laughter, closing the drawer. “Looking after this many kids, I can hardly blame him.”

“Me either.” Rick said, wiping at his eyes, before he started walking up the row against the window to join her. “You know there was this one time he-”

The story never came. He’d seen something in the window, out of the corner of his eye. Something that made him turn to face it full on and that made his face fall into an expression that she’d seen so many times on so many faces. Anguish, muted by life in the wasteland. Putting down the bottle, she hurried to join him, to see what it was that’d struck him like that. And there, standing next to him and looking out the window, she saw it. 

The graves.

There, at the far end of a large walled yard, under the eaves of a blasted tree still somehow clinging to life, two rows of graves stood stark and lonely, each one marked by a cross. Three large and no less than fifteen small. 

“Rick, I’m so-” before she could even say the word he was moving, out the door before she could start her own legs moving. “Rick!”

The storm was in its dying moments so she followed him out the door and across the yard. Even before she’d gotten halfway he was at the graves, slamming down onto his knees in front of the three larger crosses. Slowing down to a walk, she came up behind him, her eyes drifting over the neat row of grave markers. Even with what had to be two centuries of wear and tear, it was obvious they weren’t just scrap hammered into the ground to make a mark. Somebody had taken care with these, shaped the wood and inscribed names. Her stomach lurched as she saw the faint marking on one of them: Johnny Mills. 

Blinking away the feeling in her gut for a kid she’d never known, she looked at Rick. His head was bowed, his eyes closed. She couldn’t tell if it was grief or prayer. He’d certainly never prayed in her presence, not aloud anyway. And she’d never spotted him going into the All-Faiths or talking with Pastor Clements. Something gleamed dully in the light of a weak and distant lightning flash and she saw that, hanging from each of the larger grave markers were little crosses. The two on the graves marked ‘Ralph’ and ‘Antony’ were silver, the remaining one - Michael’s she reminded herself, which meant that Father Gabriel was the one who had done this, or at least wasn’t buried here - was gold. It was amazing such little things had survived this long, that they hadn’t been snatched by scavengers.

Looking to Rick, she pressed her lips together at the obvious pain written in every detail of his kneeling frame. “I’m so sorry, Rick.” 

The hand she reached out to put to his shoulder hung in midair as he spoke, voice heavy and dull. “Thank you, Piper.” and then he looked back at her and she saw the tears pricking at his eyes. “Could you leave me, for a bit? Be in soon.”

She nodded. “Of course.”

And so she turned and made her way back to the door of the orphanage. Back into the place that had been Rick’s home and was now the grave of, far as she could tell, his surrogate family.

* * *

Cait was glaring at the door. When Piper stepped back through it, she didn’t give her even so much as a chance to catch a breath of air that wasn’t laced with rads from the storm.

“The shite’s going on?” she demanded. “Where’s Rick?”

The moment she’d heard the reporter yell his name, her blood had turned to ice despite the warmth of the psycho she’d slammed while she was alone in this place’s kitchen. She thought something had happened, maybe it still had. And she knew that if something had happened to him then...well it’d be soddin’ awful for her and who or whatever it was that had done something to him. Especially the latter. She’d called him a friend and meant it. She’d never had one before - a proper one, anyway - and she wasn’t gonna lose it. Lose  _ him.  _ Not so long as she had breath in her body, rounds in her shotgun, or teeth and fingernails to tear at a bastard with.

“In the yard.” the reporter explained. “The people who raised him were buried out there, along with what looks like all the kids that were living here when the bombs dropped. So he’s...saying goodbye, I guess.”

“He’s out there?!” the anger rose sharp and jagged in Cait’s throat as she stamped forward. Sod the storm, that was blowing off, but there could be anything out there, passin’ by. Raider band, Gunner sniper in another building, a wandering pack of ferals,  _ anything _ . Frost was one of the deadliest bastards she’d ever seen, but it only takes you having your guard down once. She knew that. Knew it more than most. “You left him weepin’ at a grave  _ on his bloody own _ ?!”

Crossing her arms, Piper stuck out her chin, a chin all the Psycho in her blood was screaming at her crack open with her fist. “He asked me to. And he’s a big boy, Cait, he’ll be fine.”

Before she could answer that or simply barge the reporter aside, MacCready’s voice broke in on them. “Hate to break up a good cat-fight, but Preston’s found something.” she turned to find him standing at the entrance to a corridor, leaning against one of the paneled walls with his usual shite-eating smirk on his lips. “You're both gonna want to see this.”

Snarling away the worst of the anger she felt right now at the reporter, she stalked away from her and followed MacCready as he pushed himself off the wall and walked back down the corridor, hearing but not giving a shite as Piper followed on behind. The merc led them into a room through a door studded with iron fittings and a large cross that some poor bastard was nailed to. 

The room itself was probably that of the ‘father’ that Rick had said had ran the place. The carpet, despite how old it was, was still kinda deep and even plush in places. The panelling on the walls seemed to be of a darker wood and the room was dominated by a desk of the same material. A wall of books, most of which didn’t look useful for anything, dominated the wall behind it but that wasn’t what MacCready wanted to show them. On the wall opposite the desk, something was hanging that had Valentine’s and Preston’s full attention. Fuckers had smiles on their faces, for some-

_ ‘Oh.’ _

Shouldering in alongside the synth, she saw what it was. A newspaper article from those old ‘Boston Bugles’, in a frame of what seemed to be gold-painted wood. A newspaper article that had Rick’s picture on it. She almost didn’t recognize him. He looked...younger, somehow. His hair was shorter, his beard nonexistent, and he was dressed in a military uniform with a chest full of medals. Reading wasn’t something she wasn’t the best at, but she could read the headline above the picture. For all that what she read made her wish she couldn’t with its vomit-inducing tweeness. 

**_HOMETOWN HERO: BOSTON BOY AWARDED MEDAL AT ANCHORAGE!_ **

Before she could read on, Valentine started doing it for her. 

_ “Boston gained a new hero yesterday when Sergeant First Class Richard Nathaniel Frost, a native of North Roxbury, was awarded one of the nation’s highest awards in a ceremony following the successful reclamation of Anchorage, Alaska.  _

_ Sergeant Frost was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross for displaying extraordinary heroism whilst engaged in combat as a member of the 108th Mechanised Infantry Regiment, Second Battalion, Fox Company. On the day of January 10th, Sergeant Frost and his fellow mechanized hellcats were fighting in the final battle to reclaim the beleaguered Alaskan city from the Reds when a company of the Chinese 127th Light Mechanized Infantry Division - the so called ‘Iron Army’ - fell back from our gallant boys and tried to escape to dig in further into the city.  _

_ Realising the danger presented to our brave GIs if they were allowed to do so, Sergeant Frost leapt into action despite being the only member of his squad either unwounded or not attending to the wounded. With his trusty T-51 power armor and M199 machinegun, the courageous Sergeant held the line against the Reds despite overwhelming odds and mortal peril, allowing other detachments of the 108th to eventually surround and capture the enemy.  _

_ For his bravery, already marked by the prior awarding of a Bronze Star for pulling his predecessor as First Sergeant out from under the guns of the enemy when the man was wounded, Sergeant Frost was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross by General Chase himself in a special ceremony following the recapture of the city. With the war in Alaska done, Boston cannot wait to honor its native son before he doubtless returns to take the war back to the Red’s front door.”  _

For a long moment everything was silent in the room, the only movement everyone looking at each other. Cait could read her thoughts on the rest of everybody’s faces: Rick had mentioned he was a soldier, but he’d never mentioned any of  _ this  _ shite. Bastard was, by all accounts, a bloody  _ war hero _ . 

The creak of the door opening had everybody spinnin’ around, hands flying to weapons. But instead, standing in the door, was  _ him _ . Rick looked haggard, all done in, and the look in his eyes as his gaze swept over all of them, before fixing on the article hanging in pride of place on the wall, spoke volumes. The silence was in danger of stretching, so she broke it. It was what she was good at, after all.

“So you were always like this, were ya?”


End file.
